Beware False Prophets
So here I am on my tenth day. Of juice fasting. I believe this should have some sort of religious significance if I had a religious bone in my body.
But I don't.
What I had was hope.
A beautiful dream, if you will, that burned inside me that this day would be a spiritual and physical nirvana synchronized into glorious harmony. This dream was ignited by a colleague of mine that is no stranger to fasting, juice or otherwise. He's an interesting individual who hales from northern Mexico and actually is a doctor there, but is not licensed in the United States. He is smart, charming and I have enjoyed our many conversations over time that have ranged all the way from healthcare disparities among ethnic and socioeconomic groups to the inevitable crazies found in condo associations. You name it, we've discussed it. And I've enjoyed those discussions.
Until now.
Because he lied to me. You see, he has fasted. He has fasted for many, many days. Weeks even. And his wife has fasted even longer. And in his infinite fasting wisdom, he uttered these words to me,
"You'll really start feeling great on day 10".
Well, that was a goddamn lie. I do not feel great. I mean, I actually do feel great physically, okay...I admit that. I've lost weight, I have energy, my make-up still looks incredible... But I'm hungry. I'm really hungry. I don't even want to tell you what I could do to a chicken leg right now. So, there I was holding out for that Golden Day 10 feeling of euphoria my friend had promised.....and it didn't come.
Plus, my husband is being a pain in the ass. When I watched Fat Joe's video ("Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead"), he profiled a woman in Iowa who fasted for 17 days and still cooked dinner for her husband. I watched that and thought to myself what a piece of shit he was and thanked God I would never have to do that in my house. Not with my super, uber, evolved husband. No way. I'm a feminist, dammit.
Day 5, I cooked my husband a brat patty.
Hell, I was even cheerful about it. Because I knew the Golden Age awaited come DAY 10. Promised to me by my faithful Mexican Messiah, whose friendship and conversations I now valued more than ever.
Liar.
Next time he stops by the cubicle, I'm just going to throw a tomato at him. Or punch him in the throat. I guess it'll depend on whether I've found my nirvana by then.
In the meantime, I'm sipping my zucchini, tomato, chard, carrot, onion cocktail and mellowing out. I'm sure I will get over this deep betrayal at some point. For now, I've committed to telling myself that I'm a late bloomer, always have been, and I'll just hold out for my bliss on day 14.
Juice on.
But I don't.
What I had was hope.
A beautiful dream, if you will, that burned inside me that this day would be a spiritual and physical nirvana synchronized into glorious harmony. This dream was ignited by a colleague of mine that is no stranger to fasting, juice or otherwise. He's an interesting individual who hales from northern Mexico and actually is a doctor there, but is not licensed in the United States. He is smart, charming and I have enjoyed our many conversations over time that have ranged all the way from healthcare disparities among ethnic and socioeconomic groups to the inevitable crazies found in condo associations. You name it, we've discussed it. And I've enjoyed those discussions.
Until now.
Because he lied to me. You see, he has fasted. He has fasted for many, many days. Weeks even. And his wife has fasted even longer. And in his infinite fasting wisdom, he uttered these words to me,
"You'll really start feeling great on day 10".
Well, that was a goddamn lie. I do not feel great. I mean, I actually do feel great physically, okay...I admit that. I've lost weight, I have energy, my make-up still looks incredible... But I'm hungry. I'm really hungry. I don't even want to tell you what I could do to a chicken leg right now. So, there I was holding out for that Golden Day 10 feeling of euphoria my friend had promised.....and it didn't come.
Plus, my husband is being a pain in the ass. When I watched Fat Joe's video ("Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead"), he profiled a woman in Iowa who fasted for 17 days and still cooked dinner for her husband. I watched that and thought to myself what a piece of shit he was and thanked God I would never have to do that in my house. Not with my super, uber, evolved husband. No way. I'm a feminist, dammit.
Day 5, I cooked my husband a brat patty.
Hell, I was even cheerful about it. Because I knew the Golden Age awaited come DAY 10. Promised to me by my faithful Mexican Messiah, whose friendship and conversations I now valued more than ever.
Liar.
Next time he stops by the cubicle, I'm just going to throw a tomato at him. Or punch him in the throat. I guess it'll depend on whether I've found my nirvana by then.
In the meantime, I'm sipping my zucchini, tomato, chard, carrot, onion cocktail and mellowing out. I'm sure I will get over this deep betrayal at some point. For now, I've committed to telling myself that I'm a late bloomer, always have been, and I'll just hold out for my bliss on day 14.
Juice on.