Fasting: Day One

empty_stomach_by_krusedullfaen

5:30 a.m.

I didn’t sleep particularly well. My mind kept rolling to, and rehearsing, a difficult conversation I need to have with a team member. I tossed and turned and traded out pillows. When my “slow rise” alarm started to twinkle, I strongly – very strongly – consider the idea of bailing on my trainer, but drag myself out of bed and out into the bracing -24 air. I drink my first 32 oz of water of the day.

8:17 a.m.

I visit the bathroom.

9:27 a.m.

A positive, high-energy, and blessedly short team meeting and a the earlier solid workout have me feeling upbeat. “I’m trying to do a 5-day water fast,” I text to a team member/friend who I trust not to scoff and who is genuinely interested in such things. “Wow!” he texts back. “We’ll see how I do,” I reply. I make a joke about the “great mental clarity,” though not a very funny one.

As I visit the bathroom, I’m feeling determined.

My last snack was about 14 “zesty” pickle spears, so my electrolytes are beyond fine and I’ve got a little of the salty bloat. Seeking electronic support, I scan a blog by a woman who lost 20 pounds in one week (yeah, I know, it’s a lot of water weight) and kept it off – plus shed five more pounds – over the course of careful eating for a month. Inspired, I sip my orange-hibiscus tea, a sachet pilfered from the “free” pile in the breakroom, and prep for a powwow with my CEO.

Before I visit his office, I visit the bathroom.

10:55

Guiltily, I consume four cashews, dill pickle-flavored (surprise), scanning hallway traffic to ensure the one guy I told about this doesn’t bust me. I regret the nuts immediately, and chase them with a full 20 oz. bottle of water. I visit the bathroom.

High Noon

I guzzle another bottle of water and chew some gum as I pack up some orders for my Rodan & Fields biz. Happily, a package arrives for me, which contains this lipstick red Coach beauty.

1:47 p.m.

I visit the bathroom.

3:30 p.m.

I can feel my stomach rumbling during my last meeting of the day. I can’t think of anything except for food. Salty, sweet, chewy, crunchy, amazing food.

Because I am basically a terrible person and the gods love to taunt me, two bags of Canadian Doritos – why do those Canucks get the best chips?! – are delivered to my desk.

Fortunately, I have pampering appointments lined up, and I’m forced to scurry out. After visiting – you guessed it – I’m off to a massage gifted to me by one of my wonderful team members, followed by a French mani. (Tell me the look is dated; in this rare case, I simply don’t care.)

9:38 p.m.

I’m not sure how I’ll sleep through the night unless the gurgling and shouting down below stops. “They” say the first two days are the worst, and “they” are right.

I watch a show called Stripped, where materialistic folks are quite literally stripped of all their worldly goods and forced to sleep naked on a cold floor for 21 days. I recall the joy my new red bag brought me, and briefly think I could benefit from such an experience.

As Trevor Noah clicks on (I saw him live in November, and it’s love, bitches) I rub some chamomile essential oil on my wrist and wait for sleep to overtake me.

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