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.
I visit the bathroom.
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.
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.
I visit the bathroom.
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.)
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.