Won't You Be My Caveman

Have you heard about the new Caveman diet and exercise program? Probably not. After all, how would you? These are cavemen -- they don't blog or tweet. They rely on drawing pictures on the walls of their apartment in black Magic Marker to get the word out. It's a crude form of marketing, but in a few million years, everybody will be on the program.

I spend time deciphering wall scribbles and know that there is a group of men who have decided the best way to stay in shape is to go back to their Neanderthal roots (which, by the way, is my hair color two months after a trip to the beauty shop). The Caveman diet consists of meat, nuts, berries and other things they can scavenge without having to cook it themselves. Have you recently had a box of donuts go missing before a big meeting at work? Check for the heavy footprints of a homo-erectus outside the break room.

I can understand the logic in avoiding processed foods and eating closer to the source, but if the new cavemen are going to reap the true benefits of this diet, they're going to have to hunt and gather all their own food -- and do so without the aid of four-wheel drive vehicles, gunpowder, GPS systems, and FishFinders. This task may prove a little difficult for urban-dwelling hunter-gatherers, who will have to rely on a diet of rats and whatever they can dig out of the trash. And of course, everything will have to be eaten raw. That whole wheel and fire not having yet been invented can be a bummer

My favorite part of the program, however, is not the diet, but the exercise plan. Because today's cavemen aren't actually chasing woolly mammoths through parking garages, they need to find other ways to get their hearts pumping and their muscles toned. But they can't go to a gym because the original cavemen never hung around together pumping iron and drinking sweat-flavored water. No, the new caveman exercise program consists of squatting behind bushes and leaping out. This is known in some parts of the country as "a punishable crime," but that just adds to the adrenaline rush. The guys get their strength training tossing occasional boulders at each other and grunting -- because dragging women around by their hair has not yet been officially sanctioned by the group.

To me, there is are two benefits of this diet and exercise program. First, these guys won't find mates with whom to reproduce. And second, because when we women see men digging through the garbage for pastrami or squatting in the shrubbery, we'll run for our lives. Which may be just the exercise program that works best for us.

I'm Out of Touch

I feel so very out of it some days. Today, for example. I just returned from the grocery store where I was the only customer not wearing an earpiece.

Remember the good old days of 2007 when if people wanted to chat loudly about brand of toe fungus cream their spouse wanted they had to hold their cell phone up to their ear to do so? At least then you knew they were conversing with a real live person and not having a schizophrenic breakdown in the personal hygiene aisle.

Now even the blue hairs have a Bluetooth. And that's what bothers me the most.

I thought I could count on grandma and grandpa to hold the line against having to be technologically wired to everyone in their lives at every moment of the day and night. I figured if kids wanted to be turned into droids that was their business, but the Red Hat Ladies and their consorts, they were supposed to uphold the tradition of personal freedom to roam without anyone knowing where they were. A freedom I was more than willing to fight for.

The truth is that when I leave the house I want to leave the ringing phone behind. I don't want to read my 53 e-mails about Viagra and Faux-lex watches. I'm okay not being able to hook up to the Internet to read whether Tiger's mistress's former boyfriend's massage therapist is a third cousin to John Edwards's mistress's aromatherapist. I just want some old-fashioned piece and quiet.

You can be in communication with everyone you know all the time. But when someone points at my technology-free ears and calls me "Out of touch," I'll just nod and smile. You're damned right, I am.

I Need a Drink

The aughties, as some are calling them, were fast times. We had to be able to search for an iPhone app while reading our GPS device and text-messaging the pizza parlor to make sure they used real cheese, not that fake stuff... and we had to do all of that while driving in rush hour traffic on the way to our court-appointed anger management class. Is it any wonder that as the decade closed, we heaved not so much a sigh of relief, as one of exhaustion. Especially those of us over forty who shouldn't have been up at the stroke of midnight.

The energy drink market sprang into action starting at the turn of the new millenium to help us get up for our daily demands -- kind of like Viagra for our entire body. Red Bull, Jolt, Monster, Rockstar, and 5-Hour Energy Drink all arrived on the scene, vowing to give us the buzz we'd need just to make it through our 20-hour days. Beverages went from something to quench our thirst to something that would ignite our mind, invigorate our body, provide more stamina, and help us feel less sucky.

Then the economy started feeling sucky (apparently, it wasn't drinking enough sugar) and we were all hyped up with nowhere to go. No point in feeling up all the time when you're curled up in the fetal position lamenting the loss of your livelihood.

Naturally, the beverage industry took notice and now a whole slew of drinks designed to help us chillax and mellow out are now hitting the market, uh, not running because that would require energy. They're lumbering towards the shelves, taking their own sweet time. One even promises a vacation in a bottle, apparently because most Americans can no longer afford to take one in a car or plane.

These drinks, with names such as Slow Cow, Ex Chill, and Relax contain melatonin, valerian, rose hips, and dander of the three-toed sloth. Okay, maybe not so much the latter, but there's a creature that seems none-too-rushed. In my opinion, the names need some work to stand out in a sea of liquid -- how about Mellow Yellow, Dude Where's My Stress?, and Can o'Bliss. (Please tell me you go that last reference... if not, sound it out. It's okay, I'll wait.)

I can't wait to see what other moods we'll want our drinks to provide in the future. As a menopausal woman, I think there would be a great market for estrogen-laced beverages that minimize hot flashes while leveling out mood swings and enhancing libido. We could call it Cougar Cola.