It is winter. February is drizzling on and on and I am trapped between Christmases exuberant feasting and the cheap Valentines Day chocolate to be sold off in approximately 3 days. I am puffy. I am pale. I am a hairs breadth from going back to the gym.
I am going back on a juice fast.
I decided to try juice fasting last spring after watching Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead . I went for a few months drinking juice all day and eating real food pretty much only ay night. I felt really good. I dropped a few pounds, but not as many as I was hoping. I glowed. And then I completely and totally lost interest.
The problem with liking food and trying any diet-type thing is that I feel a bit like a traitor. I thought, how incredibly boring it was turning every conversation into a blow by blow of what’s going into my mouth. This is something other girls do. I don’t want to sit around vegan raw food restaurants talking about the latest diet I’m on. Who wants to hear about that?
Hmmm. Who wants to hear about everything going into other peoples mouths.
Food writers. Oh god.
Because really, what is the difference between taking a picture of a pie or a veggie smoothie and whoring it all over Facebook. They are both going on and on about the mundane business of eating.
So I’m at my local market this evening buying a comical amount of produce and a pack of Du Maurier distinct regulars, and the sales girl looks at my tomatoes and goes “Doing a lot of baking? or…”
“oh, I’m starting a juice fast in the morning.” I reply, a bit embarrassed. Why did I have to buy cigarettes with all this? I look like a Yaletown oxymoron. I should have bought a box of wine and a round of Plan B, I would look like less of an asshole.
But she is now my new Bestest Mate. “OMG I do a juice feast once a month! I super love it!” etc etc, something something, glowing skin, etc. Did she just call it a juice FEAST? It’s noisy in here, but I’m pretty sure she said Feast. How little is the average woman eating when eating pureed kale for days is described as a Feast?
Look, I recognize that as someone who self-describes as a “food writer” (its more exciting
than office administrator) I am supposed to be enjoying the fecundity of the culinary arts daily! Every minute should be a romp through tastes and textures, drowning in butter, damn to all the haters. But fuck, how people can eat all day, for a living even, and not look like their trying to shoplift a sack of potting soil under their top all day is beyond me.
Fat may be a feminist issue, but damn it, I feel like I’m made out of packing peanuts at the moment. So excuse me if I go miserably chug down ginger-apple-beet juice for a few weeks.
If anyone needs me, I’ll be on the toilet.