Deep Cleansing Breathe

Of all the things I've tried in my efforts to make there be less me without losing what is innately moi, this was by far the worst.

Super far.
Can't get there from here far.

Way worse than the breathe that accompanies the complete lack of carbohydrates. I guess what with a good portion of a cow and 43 eggs doing the hokey pokey in your belly, breathe is bound to get rough.
But wowsa.
The smell of dog shit is the closest I can equate it to. In your mouth.

Jarringly worse than the cabbage soup gas. An overachiever when it comes to flatulence, the cabbage soup diet put me in the Olympics trials. Easy.

Even worse than the "oily anal leakage" situation from 2001 when Lucio was forced to ask the question, "Ah, Dios Mio, Heather, what did you eat?" as he woke in a bed quite literally full of orange oil.

Stupid Dorritos.

A simple cleanse. For three days, no food. Sounds like something Goldie Hahn would do. Admittedly, she'd probably do it to jump start her no doubt marrinated liver, but whatever.

Here were my instructions.

No food.
Just OJ, Pineapple or Carrot juice when I found myself hungry.
Water all the rest of the time.
Work out like normal.
Hungry? Have 5-7 ounces of juice.
Hell, if it's day 2 or three, you can even add Apple Juice to the mix.
Keep drinking water.

Par...tay.

Toxins. OUT!!!
Caffeine addiction. BEAT IT!!
A quick 5 pound loss. COME ON!!

Originally, I thought if I started on Friday, it would some how be easier.
For me, it's too hard to be that disciplined on a Friday.
It was almost impossible for me to not eat on Saturday, what with all that goes on in our world on any given Saturday. Like I don't want to cook, and we have pizza and usually go out for at least one meal on Saturday.

Oh, and I forgot to buy juice.
Whoopsie.


So, I begin my fast in earnest on a Sunday.
The Lord's day.
Sounds meant to be.

I muddle through. Barely.
Lucio takes lead with child, as I am cantankerous by 2 pm without benefit of diet coke.
Actually, I kept dozing off, what with no outside influences of energy in my system.

I find napping helps almost everything.
30 minutes can be magical.
Try it. I dare you to be as whatever you were before you let yourself doze off watching Toddlers & Tiaras. If nothing else, you know you're a better person than those nuts.

Just a little pearl of wisdom from me to you.

I make it through work on Monday and Tuesday basically without too much trouble because, well, it's work, and I am expected to not just think about myself there, and I almost always manage to meet that expectation.

The paycheck is a solid motivator.

Almost always.

Tuesday night arrives. Trip my way through a Junior League meeting.
Avoid snacks, water and invitations to grab a cocktail post meeting.

Head home for the finale.

Oh, did I not mention?

The Finale goes like this.

Stop drinking and eating at 8 pm.
At 9 pm, drink a combination of 2 pints of olive oil and 2 pints of lemon juice.
Lay on right side.
Be still.
And wait.


I know? Right!

I choke down the olive oil/lemon combo. Do them in one NOT CLEAR container.
Trust me, you don't want to see what's in the glass. I don't like remembering what it looked like.

But, on the other hand, if I ever need to induce vomiting, I do have the image now to get things started.

I brush my teeth.
I lay down.
I am still.
I taste like Italy.
I brush my teeth again.

(I bought really expensive olive oil. If I am going to drink it, and pretend it's a drink, it's going to be the best I can find)

Lying there, I begin to congratulate myself.
Such discipline. So strong.
"I'm every woman...it's all in me... anything you want...."

I wonder when I will have to go to the bathroom?

Oh, that's right. I haven't told you about the real finale.

Like, in a scary movie, when the naughty killer is downed by our heroine, and she turns to check her wrongly accused beau, and then she turns around, and poof dead bad guy is GONE.

Oh my! Where did he go?

He's right there!! With one last evil deed in him!
BAM. BOOM. BLAST.

That is what it going on in my tum tum.
Keep staying still, Heather.

"Baby, you're a firework...come on show me what you're worth..."


Wait. What is that?
Uh oh. Urgent and seizing.

Quickly to bathroom.

Door closed.
Fan on.
Time for the final finale.


The final finale is all about the, um, output.
If you've done this correctly, it's entirely possible you're are going to finally part ways with a cheeseburger you ate in '87.

In the form of green pellet like substances.
The size of peas.
At top speed.

Well, I did it right.
Way right.

It sounds like a firing squad had our toilet bowl in its cross hairs.

The noise jostled my usually fairly oblivious husband from his permanent seat in front of the computer doing homework.

Hurrying down the hallway, Lucio calls, "Honey bunny, are you okay?"

"I think I'm alright."

"That didn't sound alright."

"It didn't feel great either, but I think it's okay."

Gripping the side of the tub, I wait for everything to settle down.
Which it totally does.

I go to bed, and basically, pass out.

Nine hours later, I wake and I am horizontally across our bed, with Lucio gripping the side and using his Columbia fleece as a blanket.

I get up, scrape my tongue clean, use the loo.
Stripping down, I step on the scale.

7 pounds down.
S-E-V-E-N P-O-U-N-D-S!!!!

Totally worth it.
It wasn't that bad.

Completely doable.
Highly recommend.

Just make sure you buy good olive oil.
That's the key.

That, and being able to not accidentally chew your own elbow off when you just cannot stomach another ounce of OJ.

Maybe it was be easier to just watch what I eat and exercise.

Damn it.