Last week, after reading what I had to say about my genes (here), my mom explained that my obesity genes are actually more like survivor genes — that back when food was scarce, the bodies that stored fat were the bodies that survived. This new information got me doing some mirror quality self reflecting, and I realized I’m nothing more than a high-functioning Neanderthal. Think about it!
My foot skin is dyed permanently dirty! I have the speaking skills of… a dumb little girl who speaks badly! I find shaving counterproductive! Seeing old ladies pooping in their front yards in broad daylight ain’t faze me! I was born to be a cave woman, for heaven’s sake!
After deciding I was a cavelady stuck inside the body of a 21st Century lamelady, I wanted to connect with my prehistoric self. The first step, of course, was to hunt and gather my own lunch. And, since I live near the ocean, I figured I might as well take advantage of my resources and go fishing.
Armed with poles and store-bought squid, my friend Curtis and I set sail in a couple of kayaks, and started catching flounder by the buttload. Though most of them weren’t long enough to keep, they would’ve been if I were hungry and Neanderthally enough.
As I thought about how awesome and resourceful I was, Curtis reminded me that we’d had lots of semi-modern day technologies – fishing poles, kayaks, etc. – to help us out. Without them, said that mofo Curtis, we probably wouldn’t have caught anything.
Me: Sho you right.
Curtis: Always is.
Me: Les do dis right… We’ll go clamming!
Curtis: A fine idea.
So we clammed. Curtis, my brother-in-law Matt, and I all went clamming. And we sucked.
We were there for more than an hour, and we came home with a dozen dime-sized quahogs. Not quite a feast, but certainly some quality protein. Still, I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to prove I was a survivor — I wanted to prove I could sleep in a cave, poop on the ground, and most importantly, live off the land if I had to. So, I went clamming again.
Turns out, unless cavemen had doctor’s offices and antibiotics, I wouldn’t do so great.
At first, the second trip to the mud flats went better. I wasn’t using any tools – just my feet, knees, and hands – and I was doing well. All it took was some stomping, kneeling, and clawing to produce a perfectly edible quahog. I was a good cave woman! My mom was right!
That night, I had a delicious dinner of
clams Stop ‘n’ Shop pork tenderloin and potato chips. (You ever eat clams? Those bastids is narsty).
That following day, I had a delicious case of saltwater chiggers. (A.K.A. sand fleas). (A.K.A. larvae that sneak under your skin and suck your blood for months).
My right knee broke out in a patch of blistery bug bites so bad it required a visit to the doctor’s. If my susceptibility to nature’s wrath isn’t enough to tell me I wouldn’t have survived a couple hundred thousand years ago, my trip to the Dr. Lloyd is.
Dr. Lloyd: Hello, you girl. What’s wrong today?
Me: I went clamming the other day and I think some bugs are living inside my skin. The internet says “maybe.”
Dr. Lloyd: Hmm. Never seen this before. What else does the internet say?
Me: That’s about it.
Dr. Lloyd: Is it itchy? Does it hurt? How bad does it hurt, on a scale from 1-10?
Me: Uhh… Five. Sometimes. A five, sometimes.
Dr. Lloyd: TEN IS DEATH.
Me: Oh! Three then.
Dr. Lloyd: Okay then, liar. Three it is. Well. Is your groin sore at all? Any swelling?
Me: Get your mind out of the gutter, old man.
Dr. Lloyd: Is your lady part throbbing? The area near it, at least?
Me: Yeah it’s sore. And let’s go with a two.
Dr. Lloyd: Huh?
Me: A two! The pain’s a two, sometimes.
Dr. Lloyd: Let’s keep it at a three. You have an infection, here’s a prescription for an antibiotic. It’ll probably cause a really bad, really itchy rash.
Me: Thanks, doc!
So… turns out I’m not very good at hunting and gathering. Bet you I could poop on ground with the best of them, though.
P.S. There are two 2ge+her references in this post. Who can find them!?