As I’ve mentioned, I’m turning thirty next month. It’s a big number that freaks me out. Don’t comment that 30 is the new 20, or some other goop, because I’m still going to feel anxious about having my next birthday. I don’t think I’m worried about being old, per se, but I feel like being “thirty-something” means I’m going to actually have to be a grown up. Since I’ve always been more than a little unorthodox, meandering quite happily to the clang of my own cowbell, the thought of the birthday that makes me an official adult in my mind is a little much. I know, I know, it’s all in my head, but that where I live!
In an effort to turn the big three-uh-oh feeling as positive about myself as possible, I’ve been deep conditioning like crazy, doing clay face masks, and getting way more exercise. To help facilitate my planned birthday present to myself–a butt that doesn’t frighten me– I am also currently trying The Seventeen Day Diet. It’s apparently highly-effective, rapid (yay!) and has been recommended by a number of doctors on television. Of all the features it includes, the “highly-effective” banner means more to me than the t.v. physicians business. I’m not linking to it here, since I am not in any way affiliated to the doctor who designed it, but you can Google it if you want to know more.
Truthfully, I’m not into fad diets and this seems pretty faddy. The Seventeen Day Diet cuts out all starches in the first cycle of (you guessed it) seventeen days. That’s a painful scenario for me. I love my carbs. I could eat pasta for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, which may or may not have something to do with the state of my posterior. Since my birthday is galloping in my direction, I thought I’d give this thing a try to kick-start my metabolism, something it is touted to do.
I borrowed the book from a friend, read the first and second cycles thoroughly, and put all the “no-no” foods out of sight. Today is my fifth day of eating lean protein, egg whites, limited amounts of fruit, and Greek yogurt (yum) as well as veggies by the bucketload. Given that by far most of the things I eat right now are plants, I am essentially a walking compost heap. It’s an interesting scenario, and I don’t feel too bad most of the time.
Friday morning, day three of this process, I hit bottom. Given that it happened in the swimming pool, I mean that in a literal sense. Normally, once I get in the pool, or get out on my dog walk or whatever I’m doing to get my heart rate up, the first few minutes are a little painful until I hit my stride: after that I enjoy the workout. Friday, though, the entire swim felt like paddling a canoe with a salad fork. No matter how hard I felt I was working, my body felt weak and I really got no where. I very nearly went to Subway for lunch, but powered through. Fist pump!
Today, many, many, many hours since rice, bread, potatoes, or noodles have entered my system, I’m feeling pretty darn good. After deep water aquasize with Miss Sassy, I came home and built myself a glorious salad. This process involved washing lots of lettuce and mushrooms, slicing a couple strawberries, tossing in some broccoli slaw and mashing a little ripe avocado. I tossed a little light poppyseed dressing on top and settled on the couch to check Facebook and watch a little t.v. before marking papers.
This week my hands have been especially bad. They’re extra clumsy and I’m struggling to do some of the basics, like stir the fruit on the bottom into my yogurt. That’s rough. It makes me cranky, because nothing I do seems to make much of a difference. Anyway, I sat down, took two very delicious bites of my very healthy lunch, realized I had forgotten my water in the kitchen, and tried to set my bowl down to go retrieve my beverage.
You know you saw this coming.
I feel like half my blog these days centers around dumb things I do. With hands that function unpredictably, I do dumb things way too often. There was my beautiful salad, only two bites gone, upside down on the floor. Living in a house with mammals, scraping food off the floor is only a feasible option if one wants to create an intestinal hairball. I picked up all the bits and pieces that were resting on other bits and pieces, but in the end I had to abandon hope on well over half my salad.
I never drop the turnips or foods I could care less about. Only the good stuff seems to meet the hardwood around here.
I’ve got twelve more days to go, and I’ve (thankfully) stopping dreaming of linguine. I’ll keep you posted on how this thing goes, since I’m not promoting it, just writing about giving it a go.
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