A week without the familiar pleasures.

The finger did shiver a bit, longing for the warmth of the hand-rolled, and the cage caught chill at the slightest onset of breeze, unfortified by brandy, but the ledger shall show that I did weather the week with a drastically reduced intake of sodium, tobacco, alcohol and fat. I subsisted on boiled lentils, aromatic broths, halibut, and steamed greens, flavored here and there with a shake of "Mrs. Dash," a spice-based salt substitute that, quite frankly, does not in the least bit begin to fill Old Man Morton's straining, creaking hobnail boots. For breakfast, muesli and defatted Greek yogurt are my constant companions...I ought be careful not to wear yellow, lest strangers take me for Lance Armstrong and parade me about on their shoulders, spraying geysers of champagne into my giddy maw, shoving hot croque monsieur into my hands, lading my arms with bundles of cured meats and jars of olives, filling the basket of my bicycle with calvados and cognac, packing my pockets with pâté de foie gras, tucking granules of sel gris into my cheek, and, finally, strapping an entire Serrano ham across my back in the manner of a quiver and pushing me off in the direction of a forest, where I might do what I will with all these things and dance the night away under the stars, deliriously happy, affirmed of life and senses, with poetry in my heart, mortality comfortably at bay, the whole lot. Yes, I had better not wear yellow.