ZONED OUT
The diet industry is a kazillion dollar business. There’s a book, program, miracle drug, or motivational guru for every segment of society. There are keto and Mediterranean diets, vegan and Atkins diets, and whatever diet Oprah is promoting this month. It’s impossible to pass a day without hearing imperious TV doctors pontificating upon what you should eat, when you should eat it, and why you’re going to meet an untimely demise if you don’t change your gluttonous ways.
Honestly, though, the sincerity of messages intended to guilt you into achieving healthy lifestyles would be more palatable if they weren’t inevitably followed by commercials from Snickers, Budweiser, Coca-Cola, and Sugar Frosted Flakes.
The most recent health initiative revolves around “Blue Zones.” It seems there are parts of the world— blue zones—where people live well and joyfully until age 100. Notably, the healthy and happy residents all share certain commonalities. They mostly eat fruits and vegetables and rarely massacre a porterhouse. They avoid gyms because exercise is a part of their daily lives. They sleep seven hours nightly, are spiritual, and have active social connections. Lastly, these uber healthy folks, no matter their age, maintain a purpose in life.
Not surprisingly, only one blue zone is found in the United States: Loma Linda, California.
You see, in blue zones like Icaria, Greece, and Costa Rica’s Nicoya Peninsula, the body is treated as a temple. We Americans feel the same way, with the sole differences being that our temples include golden arches, unlimited sodas, little sleep, and the infinite stress inherent to acquiring more stuff than the neighbors.
But other than that, just exactly the same.
I’m pretty sure the reason America scores poorly in health is because we have redefined freedom to mean “life, liberty, and the pursuit of Happy Meals.” We eat and drink like demented gourmands. We believe going couch-bound for hours of watching videos and being easily offended is either an entitlement or an inalienable right.
And if we inexplicably put on 30 pounds, well heck, just text Grub Hub and order a big ol’ plate of Ozempic.
Lest anyone think I’m acting high and mighty, please know I’m one of the worst offenders against healthy habits. I just had two stents stuck in my heart due to decades worth of smoking like a stack, drinking like a fish, and dining primarily on the fruit of the bacon tree. For years, I religiously adhered to the official Missouri Food Pyramid, which clearly stated that the four basic food groups consisted of grease, sugar, fat, and gravy.
I’m doing better now, attending cardiac rehab sessions and eating nothing tasty or fun. I’ve retired my deep fryer and am forbidden from looking at chicken skin or mentioning the names of Ben and Jerry.
No doubt the paragons of fine fettle raised in blue zones would be baffled by all this. They’d wonder why we voluntarily dine on foodstuffs boasting the nutritional profile of poison and fritter away the hours like corpulent bumps on a languid log. I think I’d try and explain to them that vast societal differences are at play, that ours is a media-, technology-, and wealth-driven culture, whereas theirs centers on simplicity, nature, and humanity.
And then, when that justification left them even more confused, I’d cast a lustful eye toward the all-you-can-eat buffet with its 24-hour sausage bar, smile, and tell them the truth.
“Buddy,” I’d say, “this is a red state, not a blue zone.”
This column was originally published in the March/April 2024 edition of Missouri Life magazine.
