Onward

Well, as you one or two faithful readers may have noticed-- the fast ended.  At the end of Day 3 my head was pounding, and the terrible irony did not escape me that I'm already a sufferer of headaches-- a 48 hour headache, voluntarily self-afflicted was not something I needed in my life.  What I did need was food.  I ate-- a grilled cheese sandwich.  Probably not the best choice and a serious stomachache afterward confirmed it, but my carb and dairy withdrawal was acute by that point.  So I gobbled down my sandwich in shame and depression and my headache was gone.  Instantly.  It seemed to be a good choice.

I rationalized and regretted my decision by turns, and told myself that I would eat sparsely and ideally, all vegan, till the fast period would have been over.  I did, for a few days, but I think that last night marked a turning point.  A returning point, I should say, to fattier and happier times.  After an afternoon lifting and sorting through boxes in the basement, it was evident that a veggie burger and a couple beers were in order, and so I traipsed down to the Oaks Bottom Pub.  The fact that Oaks Bottom is famous for its "totchos," a large platter of nachos, only with Tater Tots instead of tortilla chips lying beneath the heap of cheese, beans, sour cream, jalapenos, etc, should indicate just about where this place falls on the health-o-meter.  I ordered my own favorite: a veggie burger with blue cheese and sauteed mushrooms, a side of tots, and a pint of Proletariat Red.  It hit the spot.  I hadn't eaten cheese since my lapse, and had abstained from anything deep-fried for even longer than that.  I told myself, if I keep the consumption of deep-frieds to a minimum, I think-- I hope-- I should be ok.

So anyway.  I think I've escaped the guilt and shame of eating by now-- the fast would be over tomorrow anyway, so by then I'll really be out of the woods.  But, guilt can be productive (and how would my parents get their occasional birthday gifts if it weren't?), and my awareness of what I eat has gone up drastically.  A couple days after I quit the fast I decided to spend the day sugar free.  At work of course someone brought in several tubs of cookies, and after lunch (when I find myself craving sugar the most) I nearly bit off all my fingernails instead of going for the cookies.  A nasty tasting alternative, I tell you.  And later that night after I finished dinner, I let myself have a half a cantelope for dessert.  It was really good.  But it wasn't enough.  I wanted to-- literally, mind you-- go in to the kitchen and snack on a spoonful of sugar.  Wow.  That is a serious addiction.  

I suppose this strange, obsessive relationship about food will continue.  So I'll just write about it.  That's what turns someone from a neurotic into an expert, isn't it?  Just look at Freud, and Philip Roth.

Grace.    

Day Two

I woke up this morning with what felt like a terrible hangover.  Headache behind my left eyeball, sore muscles.  Same exact kinds of pain I feel when I've tied one on the night before.  What the hell?  I felt so great yesterday.  It has lasted all day, and even now I'm squinting painfully at the computer screen.

I slept till 10am this morning, took a long nap around lunchtime, and now it's 10:30pm and I'm exhausted.  I will try and drink my whole cup of Smooth Move before I fall asleep, but I'm not counting on it...

Grace.

Day One- Part Two

Now it's bedtime.  I feel great, really.  Walking home earlier-- from tai chi class, I admit.  I know, I know; I fast, I do tai chi.  Just pass the patchouli-- anyway, when I was walking down my street, I felt so... I don't know.  Elevated.  Everything is so green right now.  And when I walked up my front steps, I felt so strongly that I love my house.  Simple things that felt very important.

A big ol' glass of lemonade for dinner and a cup of Smooth Move.  I'm not full and I'm not hungry.  I'm realizing that I have a very profound relationship to food.  More on that later.

Grace. 

Day One

I lay in bed this morning, trying to go back to sleep, but my mind kept returning to the dreaded SWF.  I had read that some people couldn't even hold down the nasty stuff, and I was worried that I might be one of them.  What worried me even more was that I would be able-- just barely able-- to keep down 32 oz. of warm salt water and that I would therefore be committed to drinking it every morning for the next ten days.

It's not as bad as I expected.  At the behest of the experts I invested in a five dollar jar of French Celtic uniodized sea salt.  French Celtic?  Hm.  Well wherever it's from, the salt is lovely.  Two nights ago my friend Berkeley made some fantastic zucchini, sliced, drizzled in olive oil and parmesan, and stuck under the broiler, and the fancy salt we sprinkled on it was noticeably more delicious than the usual Morton stuff.  Mmm... I'm definitely making that zucchini when this is over...

Anyway.

I chugged down my French Celtic seawater with nary a gag, but with plenty a scrunched nose, and began to chop and squeeze my lemons and limes.  It's a three-citrus cocktail, all organic: conventional lemons, Meyer lemons, and limes.  I stirred in my maple syrup and cayenne pepper, and suspected by the dark maroon hue of the resulting lemonade that I had put in too much pepper.  My first sip confirmed it, and as the day progresses, the spicy lemonade is only getting spicier as the cayenne pepper soaks and spreads through the solution.  I suspect that my last cups this evening will have transformed into a kind of lemonade/hot-sauce cross-pollination.

More later.