You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Not eating for 48 hours.
Starving kids in India do it every day.
The contestants on Survivor bitch about it all the time.
But until you don’t eat, you don’t know.
This temporary starvation is not by choice. It’s a forced cleanse.
I was told not to eat for a medical procedure.
That didn’t seem like such a big deal Saturday night around 7:30pm.
I had a hamburger and fries and a couple of glasses of sweet tea.
I thought about the pending cleanse, but I figured I could do it.
I looked at the gigantic people eating in the next booth, wondering if they could go an hour without chewing something.
“Desert?” the waitress asks.
I was stuffed. Food? Who needs more food.
Then Sunday morning came around and my stomach started to gurgle.
Normally I’d make an egg or toast. I certainly would have coffee.
But Sunday, nothing.
My mouth was as dry as Jerry Sienfield’s wit.
I thought about cheating, sneaking a saltine like a prisoner, but I had to remain strong for the medical procedure.
I wanted to drink something other than a chalky Gatorade solution.
I was dreaming of bacon and eggs.
I was dying for a pork chop.
But I was not going to succumb to my demons.
So I was forced to cleanse. I know chicks are paying top dollar for this in New York, but I am not a fan.
I am suffering.
Sunday was a terribly slow day.
Tick Tock. All I could think of was eating.
Sunday was a culinary disaster.
Granulated medicine in lime green Gatorade was the closest I would get to food.
It is the dining equivalent of Hiroshima.
By Sunday afternoon I am really feeling it. I opened the fridge and stared at chicken tenders and other lunch meats.
What’s the harm?
Just a little nibble.
I quickly close fridge door.
But now it’s getting ridiculous.
It’s Monday morning and my stomach hurts. I feel nauseaus from lack of food.
My head is heavy and my thoughts slurred.
I don’t feel alert or energized.
I feel like a wino waking up on the side of a dumpster.
I am tired and honestly, I am close to going to the fridge and sneaking a snack.
Haven’t we addressed this already?
Yes, we have, but that’s how strong the lure of caloric intake has become.
I’m fantasizing about drum sticks wearing thongs.
I want a spare rib to kiss me hello.
There’s something wrong with that?
I close the fridge door again.
I gotta be strong.
All this cleansing and suffering for what?
If I eat, then go for a procedure, I might actually cause myself problems, so I have to stay the course.
But I am fading.
I woke up at 7am. Stomach smoking like a forest fire, needing something more.
7 hours till 2pm. That’s the procedure time.
Now I just want it to end. I just want to go to sleep and wake up.
I want a marching band of surgeons and nurses to have their way with me. Take some polaroids, post some still shots to Twitter and then tell me I’m ok and get the hell out.
“Eat more fiber, dumb ass.”
that’s what I want to hear.
Hopefully the doctor tells me I am fine. But as long as he tells me to go eat, I think that will enough.
Life’s Crazy™