Nobody likes a zealot. Seriously, think of all your friends who really stand for something, with their in-your-face, holier-than-thou dogma they can’t stand not shoving down your throat. They are only happy atop their soapbox. Admit it. Deep down, they drive you nuts, don’t they? Sure, their causes are noble, and yeah, we’d all do well to take a leaf out of their books, but holy moly, enough! I’d rather be a hypocrite than a zealot any day. Of course, if you dare look closely, the zealots are probably all hypocrites themselves. Maybe that’s why they are so detestable. No one can be that good. Yet there they are, preaching to the rest of us. Come down off your high horses and admit that coffee you just drank wasn’t organic fair trade.

Not once have I ever come close to zealot status, but I definitely was an idealist at one time. I wanted to save the world. And then I saw the world. And realized there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to save it. Not completely deterred I hoped maybe I could make an impact locally. That’s when I decided to farm, to feed people. And I made it happen, and it was sincerely rewarding, and positively the hardest thing I have ever done. There’s nothing romantic about farming. It’s grueling, backbreaking, and unforgiving. I farmed organically for roughly seven years, belonged to a food co-op, raised my own free-range chickens, I had a midwife and used cloth diapers, and in the end, there was scant idealism left in me. I was hardened, jaded. These days I see young people, ripe with enthusiasm, ready to plow up the land and plant seeds, and sadly I cringe. I know it’s because they remind me of me, the me I used to be. The me I am undeniably not anymore.

I do try. I buy organic when it’s affordable. I recycle, at least the stuff my area allows me toss in the bins. I use organic, extra-virgin, cold-pressed coconut oil for freaking everything under the sun, and even make my own deodorant with it. My trunk is full of reusable grocery bags. Sometimes I even remember to bring them into the store. I meditate, occasionally, and have been seen at least once in the last year at a yoga class. MindBodyGreen comes to my inbox everyday, and everyday I open it, and everyday I think to myself, “Really? How the **bleep** am I supposed to do that on top of everything else they tell me I need to do already??” Seriously, there are no less than 432 rituals that, according to the experts at MBG, are essential for a peaceful, healthy lifestyle. I’m lucky if I get in three of them a day.

Sometimes I romanticize the people of Walmart (not that I ever go there—god forbid the evil giant that it is—I’ve just seen them on facebook…). There they are with their carts stuffed full of god-only-knows-what in a box, prepackaged crap containing chemicals even the chemists can’t pronounce. Oblivious to the perils of hydrogenated oil, corn syrup, sulfates, growth hormones, parabens, aluminum, and completely indifferent to the disappearing ozone layer. Ignorance truly is bliss. Ok, so I highly doubt these people are blissful, but there has got to be something to be said for not knowing about all the things in life that are slowly and surely killing us and the planet. Oh, how I’d love to guiltlessly kick back with a bag of Cheetos, and toss my trash out with no remorse. And I do occasionally. Which is why I am probably doomed to spend my next life as a landfill scavenger in the slums of India.

So yes, fanatics get under my skin. They are outspoken, obnoxious reminders of what I am not. No, I don’t make my own chicken broth out of actual chicken feet (yes, people do this). No, I didn’t order my business cards on recycled paper with soy ink. And no, I didn’t oil pull this morning. Don’t ask. I believe in all these things, yet I feel helpless to incorporate them, powerless to stop the inevitable catastrophe we face as humans.

Trust me, I’d love to feel passionate about something again, but pathetically the most enthusiasm I can muster lately has to do with the latest novel by Elizabeth Gilbert. I did, however, recently become a beekeeper. And if you’ve not heard of the current bee disaster you really do belong at Walmart. Without bees, we die. Period. So there, I am saving the world, one honeybee at a time. I’m just not shouting about it and cramming honey down everyone’s throat. Yet. Who knows, there may be a dormant zealot in there somewhere. Although I can promise you this: I’ll never be caught dead in a Prius.