Almost two weeks ago, I had an idea: I was going to give up the Kardashians and Jenners for Lent. Now, had I spent Ash Wednesday transporting myself to a desolate cabin in the Pyrenees with no WiFi, I imagine I'd be blissfully unaware of the goings-on of America's first family of reality TV. As it is, I'm still mostly unaware, but man, is it a lot harder than I thought it would be.
For my own part, giving up the Kardashians is easy; I don't have any temptation to check in on Kylie's latest Snapchat. The difficulty is interacting with the world without picking up pieces of Kardashian lint in the process. Kard-mosis, by which stories about Kim & ko. appear on one's radar despite one's best intentions, is real.
Thus it's come to my attention that Kim shared a photo of Saint West today. I'm sure he's adorable, but I have had to cut myself off from Facebook, Twitter, and even work conversations to avoid seeing his little face. I really need to check my personal email, but I'm fairly certain the homepage will have Saint's photo front and center. Looking at him would be cheating, you see.
When my Kardash-fast began, I went on Facebook and unfollowed pages that might fill my newsfeed with Kourtney and Kendall news. The thing is, everyone reports on the Kardashians. Photos continue to pop up, and I have to avert my eyes and quickly scroll past the offending item. I feel like I'm playing whack-a-mole with a spring-loaded bust of Kris Jenner.
Because I've had to cut down on my social networking, I've found time to indulge in other pursuits. In 12 days, I've read two books, and neither one contains a selfie. I'm working my way through War and Peace. I called my mom in Texas. I went to a museum. I've downloaded a lot of foreign films, and have been catching up on the Oscar-nominated films I missed in the theater. I built an Ikea wardrobe, then hired someone to fix it when I realized I'd put the pieces the wrong way round, then ordered a new one from Ikea when said person told me it was hopeless. I've taken about 10 Pilates classes at the gym. Who needs a waist trainer?
I can only hope that by March 27, I'll be a lean, mean, well-read machine who can't pick Saint West out of a lineup. It's not you, kid. It's me.
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