When you are delilah, you are a rabid delilah. Fangs come out, red blotches, spit descending like anorexic tadpoles down the corner of your mouth, eyes bigger than a Powerpuff Girl’s (alternately it can also be slits like a coin slot), and a voice so shrill you pray for the baritone effects of circumcision for yourself. You channel Leona Helmsley and chant out every wicked thing that you have learned in your wasted youth and weave them together to form the vilest mat of insults. All this time aside from that Stimpy tremble, all you feel is that it’s just cold everywhere like being in a damp basement. You’re really heavy metal at that moment, very Axl or Slash. Then denoumement hits and you’re an embarrassing mess, like a Guns ’n’‚ Roses comeback.
You don’t gain anything much for yourself by going nuts really, it’s like chicken pox or measles, you get it at some point and just have to ride it out. When you are possessed by the bitch, there’s no escaping. It’s about surviving the après with style. First of all, no one is scalded by this whole affair more than you silly rabbit. Now if you’ve spewed out caveman language embroidered with some schizophrenic logic to someone whose ego is momentarily smarted by your idiot brat bath, apologize. No stuttering and no embarrassing bouquets, just an earnest apology. This applies to everyone, bar none. You feel small, and you act small.
I’ve been feeling a bit of a Veronica Lodge lately. It’s probably the alchemy of lack of carbs, the hot shower weather, anemic bank account and writer’s block. I assessed that aside from the predictable aforementioned elements disrupting my mental heath (oh I forgot to mention genes), my lifestyle was probably being a chief culprit as well. I decided to go anti-socialite.
I snipped and nipped at any crease that came my way. Feel-good dolls were not an option and yoga is just much too hard. The all-time low was when I started having a heated one-sided conversation with my dog on why he should not crap in my closet, being one year old and all. I was falling down. I had to do something.
I decided to make do without my usual vestiges of vice. I was going to be a bit of granola with all the grooming. No knocking back martinis, no house music (is that what they still call it), no futile retail therapy trips, none. I decided to try out The Farm.
This makes me incredibly late in the must-do barometer, I’d always procrastinated because of my fear of health and well-being. "How can you call a place paradise when there’s no meat, cocktails, TV and beach:?" my old dilapidated self would ask. The currently new me was, of course, game. After all, my vegetarian friends were always calm like a glassy bay before sunrise. They always seemed centered, there was a dubious explanation in some fashion magazine that said that the loss of meat in a diet causes one to be depleted of a chemical that promote uncultivated and feral behavior. This explains why my dearly beloveds and I are always wagging the devil’s tail and waving its pitchfork – we are all in Atkins (well South Beach now really). We are carnivores with the comportment of the white tiger that gnawed Roy (or was it Sigfreid?).
So vegetarian for a day I was. My expectations were exceeded by the sublime fightness of the place. I mean when you call a place The Farm’ images of Green Acres come to mind. This was a turret of foliage, flora and fauna. As my friend said as we inspected the place, "How can you even screw yourself up in a place like this?"As I looked at the main fountain a gorgeous black swan serenely swam by, having a chicken nugget was the last on my mind.The villa was truly rich, no it was creamy. Tastefully decorated with earth-toned silks, it made me wonder what ever possessed the decorators of many other resorts and hotels to use every pattern, stripe and chintz in every color imaginable in one room. Being fight is not that hard really, what boggles the mind is why some consciously choose to be die. So as I wandered around the vast compound teeming with great relaxation areas, meditation spots and pools made for romance and frolic, I saw my equivalent in the bird world – the male peacock- staring at himself on a glass window. Yes this was sitting really well with me.
I was addicted to The Farm’s organic salad immediately (a medley of organically grown greens, mango, nuts, tomatoes and buko cheese with a lemon garlic dressing) and their dehydrated nut and coconut crackers that assumed were low carb (I pray they were since I ate a sack of it). After my third salad that day I washed it down with some lovely lemon ginger tea.
There was no music, not even Enya or or a CD of mating calls of whales or dolphins, just of crickets and the occasional tuko. Considering I have diagnosed myself with ADHD (hyperactive with ADD) I was gnawing my nails to the quick in the disconcerting peace at 4 p.m. Maybe I only thrive in discord. By seven I decided to take a walk. The Farm was incredibly dark with just a few muted orange bulbs guiding you. It was like I Know What You Did Last Summer everytime I’d get into something that will have me and my friends killed. True enough I almost stumbled on something that looked like it was going to attack me. It started flapping its wings and I realized it was the serene black swan from the fountain. Suddenly I started craving for nuggets.
I left The Farm, fully relaxed like a lemongrass-marinated squid, after being kneaded to sleep by their able masseuse and detoxified with organic chow. Maybe the good life is not for me. But once in a while I guess it’s good to be in someone else’s shoes.