lipby (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} lipbylipby) wrote,@ 2009-05-07 23:18:00 |
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The process of alimentation
Yoko and I were studying the menus at a restaurant tonight-- Vietnam Cafe in University City-- and I couldn't decide what I wanted for dinner. I flipped through the menu, unable to come to terms with the reality that any choice I made foreclosed all other options. It felt very important that I choose the exact perfect dish for my mood.
In this situation, I invariably look across the table and ask: "So what are you going to order?" This tends to be our little routine. We each preview our orders for each other, assessing the reaction to the potential order, making sure we do not order the same dish, vaguely trying to match out levels of food intensity. So tonight I asked what she was getting and she asked what I was getting and I said, "Maybe something simple, just shrimp and rice" and she said, "OK, then I'll get the shrimp and noodles."
The more I think about this, however, the more strange it is to me that the meals we order-- which are ostensibly a reflection of our own personal appetite and taste-- invariably end up matching. Our alimentary and nutritional needs and desires are, ostensibly, entirely different. Yet I seem to be unable to order without finding some sort of common theme or motif between our meals.
Though it seems like I'm trying to find some sort of way of matching our meals, I suppose what is happening is that I ask the question merely in order to find reasons to artificially exclude certain categories of food. She picked a lower priced meal; I'll do it too. That eliminates 50% of the menu. Her meal seems light. I couldn't decide between the ginger noodles and the barbecue ribs; but if she's getting something lighter, I'll go with the ginger noodles.
Ultimately what it points to-- and I have come to understand this more and more fully-- is the reality that I have much less of an understanding of my what I desire than I think I do. Overestimating my awareness of my tastes is perhaps a bigger problem than you'd think. As I am constantly surrounded by a world that seems perpetually fascinating to me, I find myself drawn at all directions at once. Instead of indulging in my deep, abiding passions-- I find myself constantly finding reasons not to pursue certain passions. Ultimately, it is a not-very-constructive way of interacting with the world.
Perhaps I should start my path towards spiritual self-discovery by learning to make up my own damn mind about what I want to eat-- even if that means a steady diet of barbecued ribs and shrimp tempura.
Yoko and I were studying the menus at a restaurant tonight-- Vietnam Cafe in University City-- and I couldn't decide what I wanted for dinner. I flipped through the menu, unable to come to terms with the reality that any choice I made foreclosed all other options. It felt very important that I choose the exact perfect dish for my mood.
In this situation, I invariably look across the table and ask: "So what are you going to order?" This tends to be our little routine. We each preview our orders for each other, assessing the reaction to the potential order, making sure we do not order the same dish, vaguely trying to match out levels of food intensity. So tonight I asked what she was getting and she asked what I was getting and I said, "Maybe something simple, just shrimp and rice" and she said, "OK, then I'll get the shrimp and noodles."
The more I think about this, however, the more strange it is to me that the meals we order-- which are ostensibly a reflection of our own personal appetite and taste-- invariably end up matching. Our alimentary and nutritional needs and desires are, ostensibly, entirely different. Yet I seem to be unable to order without finding some sort of common theme or motif between our meals.
Though it seems like I'm trying to find some sort of way of matching our meals, I suppose what is happening is that I ask the question merely in order to find reasons to artificially exclude certain categories of food. She picked a lower priced meal; I'll do it too. That eliminates 50% of the menu. Her meal seems light. I couldn't decide between the ginger noodles and the barbecue ribs; but if she's getting something lighter, I'll go with the ginger noodles.
Ultimately what it points to-- and I have come to understand this more and more fully-- is the reality that I have much less of an understanding of my what I desire than I think I do. Overestimating my awareness of my tastes is perhaps a bigger problem than you'd think. As I am constantly surrounded by a world that seems perpetually fascinating to me, I find myself drawn at all directions at once. Instead of indulging in my deep, abiding passions-- I find myself constantly finding reasons not to pursue certain passions. Ultimately, it is a not-very-constructive way of interacting with the world.
Perhaps I should start my path towards spiritual self-discovery by learning to make up my own damn mind about what I want to eat-- even if that means a steady diet of barbecued ribs and shrimp tempura.
