So, last night I got punched in the face. Upon later reflection, I actually have reason to believe I was kneed in the face, but whatever the projectile body part involved, the contact point was definitely my face. Put away your fire and pitchforks, it was an accident and the guy who owned the fist or knee in question is a lovely person.
Seriously, I know what I sound like but put down the phone and stop dialing the abused women hotline. We were improvising in a show and he nearly tripped over me, so to teach me a lesson he popped me in the jaw.
Consequently, I have had to punish myself further by adopting a liquid diet, as the alternative is making pitiful cold puppy whimpering noises every time I chew. This has allowed for a very interesting case study in Hollywood's reaction to dietary habits. After my nearly two months so far living here, I am already very aware of the hatred that is involved in not appearing to put much thought into what you eat. Nothing gives a Hollywood barista more pleasure than stink eyeing my choice to allow her to use whipped cream on my drink, and don't even get me started on the distain toward an occasional bagel.
I have been a vegetarian for eight years, so I have a small stipend of protection from these health crazed busybodies. Apparently I am allowed to eat mashed potatoes if they are in a vegetarian shepherd's pie. Thank goodness I let Bambi get to me as a kid.
This morning, when the aftermath of my Jean-Claude Van Damme moment fully set in, I set off to the store to find sustenance that didn't require a jaw be functional. I was feeling a bit cocky about my grocery run. With my shopping basket filled with protein shakes and yogurt I looked like a regular Hollywooder!
How naive I was to feel so confident. Upon checking out, I was very disappointed to receive a whole new brand of smug looks. My checkout girl clearly thought she saw right through me. She assumed that the guy that told Bob Dylan to go electric had gotten to me too and was puppet-mastering me into abandoning my previously adored solid foods. (He hasn't had a lot going on for a while...)
I wanted to call out to her, tell her I would be back to real food as soon as I was healed. I wanted her to know that I was the good guy. (I mean obviously, if I was the bad guy in a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie I would have been knocked out, not just sore from a hit like that, surely this was evidence!) Instead, I chose to look hungrily at my protein shake, letting my eyebrows tell her, "That's right. Ten grams of protein per serving. Delicious." I strutted right out of that grocery store with my head held high, and you know what? Later tonight I am going to drink a Latte. With whipped cream.
