Fatherhood: Not Doing Nothing

Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall December 4, 2015

My father once told me there is nobody he trusts more to get him to the airport on time, or to order appetizers. In my family this is very high praise.

And it is with a similar sense of awe and pride that he now looks upon his five-year-old grandson. As a future racecar driver and prodigious eater, Zev is carrying on the Stall traditions of maneuverability and menu-ability. In fact, just a few weeks ago, while zooming a motorcycle across a table-top, the boy coined a whole new dinner course: “Happy appy aps.” These are, specifically, the appetizers you eat before your appetizers. The concept mirrors a philosophy often touted by my dad that “one should never eat on an empty stomach.”

True, not everything passed down from generation to generation is helpful or even healthy. The sins of the father, etc. etc. And although, at least to me, it doesn’t seem as bad as murder, it’s still right there in the big seven.

“Gluttony,” says my dad, “is in the eye of the beholder.”

I’m pretty sure that’s not the expression, but I support the thesis. One man’s gluttony is another man’s lust for life. These days, however, my lust for life is really starting to slow me down; so are the extra pounds. And a little while ago, I’m ashamed to say, Zev ate so many happy appy aps that they reappeared, in a decidedly unhappy fashion.

So in hopes of setting an example for Zev, while curbing my own decline, I’ve decided to show some restraint; in fact, all-out restraint, even including some double negatives: not just no appetizers, but no food, no booze, no smokes, no pills — no nothing for thirty days. My regular M.O. is pretty much all-or-nothing, but it’s never occurred to me to choose the latter. As my dad would say, “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing.” Even if what you’re doing is nothing. I’d call it a cleanse, if I didn’t hate that word so much.

***

“NO FOOD FOR A MONTH,” I announce, then ask if Zev wants to give up something too — in the spirit of solidarity.

He looks skeptical. “What’s solidarity?”

“It’s doing something because somebody else is doing it…”

But that doesn’t sound right, or like a lesson I want to teach him. I try again: “Sometimes it’s good to deprive yourself of things.”

“Why?”

“To take a break, and re-learn the simple things, like what your body really needs.”

“Does your body really need food?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you not going to have any?”

“I just told you,” I tell him — though I’m not sure I really did. “So do you want to give up something, too?”

Zevvy thinks. “How about nachos?”

“Hmm. I can’t remember you eating many nachos…”

“I had some a while ago.” He nods seriously, then decisively. “No nachos for a month.”

***

I START MY MONTH OF NOTHING (or almost nothing) by not consulting my physician, since I’m pretty sure he would have some overly “healthful” advice. Instead, I go to the pharmacy and buy 36 bottles of Ensure all on sale for 50% off. I plan on having two a day, and nothing else, other than tap water. This one purchase should last at least two weeks.

***

THE FIRST DAY ISN’T TOO BAD. I drink more water than I have in the past year and get a lot of work done on my current book. For the first time since starting it, I am writing in a library instead of a bar.

Days Two and Three are more difficult, and slightly less productive. It’s harder to focus as the novelty of deprivation wears off. The only truly interesting thing is the reaction of other people. The few I tell about what I’m doing become instantly and oddly angry. People who have never said anything about my gluttony have no reservations about attacking my abstinence. It’s as if I have personally offended them in some way.

A friend who has been privy to some of my most deeply stupid moments, and never once called me out on them, chooses this barren hill on which to make a stand: He says I’m moronic, purposefully misguided, selfish and egotistical. “And,” he tells me, “You’re probably going to become diabetic from all the sugar that’s in those things. They’re supplements, not meals. They’re to supplement your meals.”

“It says meal replacement,” I say, “right on the bottle.”

“Meal replacement supplement,” says my friend.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’re talking to me about sense?

This is how most of the conversations end. And I feel like I’ve hit a very weird nerve. In today’s age, the taboos aren’t so much about what you do or don’t do, as long as you make like you’re trying for balance. Moderation, above all else, is now the paragon of health, and apparently impossible to argue with: “So you’re into crystal meth, bestiality, Arbon parties… to each his own, as long as it’s done in moderation. It’s all about balance.”

“Like this!” says Zevvy, hopping onto the escalator on one leg. “What’s an Arbon party?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” I say, and take his hand as we rise to the 2nd level of the pharmacy. It’s Day Four, there’s been a fair amount of loopy soliloquizing, and I’ve decided to make a few adjustments based on people’s ire — trading in my normal Ensures for the diabetic formula, and upping my daily consumption from two to three.

“Hey,” says Zev, spotting a rack of chips. “Do Doritos count as nachos?”

“Yes,” I say. “They’re taco chips with cheese on them. That’s all a nacho is.”

He nods solemnly. “Can I change my no-month thing?”

“Your no-month thing?”

“Yes.”

“No,” I say, filling the basket with three flavours of aspartame-sweetened Ensure. But then I think about it some more. “Or, we could make it more interesting. You could choose something you actually really like and not have any for a week instead: a no-week thing. What do you think of that?

“How about pizza?”

This comes as a surprise. Pizza is one of Zev’s favourite things in the world. I nod, impressed, trying to figure out his angle as we head towards the cash.

“No pizza for a week,” he declares. “Starting tomorrow. So I should probably have pizza tonight… And this means I can have Doritos now, right?” I look down and he’s got the bag in his hands.

***

I CAN FEEL MY IQ lowering by the minute, and my attempts to teach Zevvy about restraint and the value of self-deprivation lost in a light-headed haze. After a night of watching him eat pizza, there are leftovers in the fridge today. He’s off to camp tomorrow, and I’m not eating. So, somehow, as a direct result of Zev deciding to give up pizza for a week he has been eating it for two days straight. And I’ve little doubt what they’ll be serving in the mess hall on his first night at summer camp — an obvious loophole. The world conspires.

Over the next two weeks I lose 10 lbs, alienate most of my friends, then earn a couple back by borrowing someone’s juicer. Apparently this appliance is the epitome of proper balance. Even people who really know me appear fooled. Meanwhile, I find myself doing increasingly stupid things. I forget my laundry at the Laundromat. I return books to the library that I bought at a store. And I attempt to make juice out of radishes. It is spicy and gaggy, and I don’t even realize this until I’ve finished most of it.

Part of me longs for the days when my misadventures were less sober and domestic. But also I’m feeling pretty good as I enter the final week. Boost is on sale now, which is exciting, and I’ve discovered that beets work better than radishes. I’m not sure what else I’ve learned — other than that our society is weirdly obsessed with vegetable juice and moderation, which sort of negates the whole idea of obsession.

Upon his return, Zev is amused to find that I’m still doing this nothing thing, and decides to list everything he ate at camp. By the time he gets to the second rotation of spaghetti and meatballs, I’m laughing through my tears.

“22 days is enough,” I say. “Want to go get some nachos?”

Zevvy shrugs. “I had some earlier. How about pizza?”