The trajectory of my sugar detox so far has run thusly:
Day 1: Amused frustration and incredulity (“Golly! Sugar is in everything!”)
Day 2: Mildly sanctimonious determination (“Who needs sugar? I am a paragon of fortitude!”)
Day 3: Confidence (“Do I want a croissant? Yes. But I don’t need it.”)
Day 4: Cracks in the foundation (“Shouldn’t I feel suddenly healthy and glowy and awesome right now? I feel the same. Where is my payoff?”)
Day 5: Cranky sugar-withdrawal meltdown
Welcome to day five. I would kill up to three endangered animals for an over-sized sour key right now. Five if I don’t have to look them in the eye.*
I think the problem is that health bloggers are duplicitous, evil demon-spawn bent on destroying humanity with vicious lies and broken promises.
Let me try that again. I think the problem is that, based on some popular, hyperbolic accounts of the benefits of eschewing the evil white crystals, I expected sugar detox to instantly make me feel more energetic, happier, healthier. My laugh would ring out effortlessly with the joy of healthy living. My skin would glow like a dewy moon, and my hair would shine like a …super shiny something else. It’s hard to think off candy.
Mostly I just feel grumpy. And in dire need of something gummy and sour.
Some (infinitely patient) friends pointed out, as I seriously contemplated mainlining some maple syrup, that it may take more than five days to feel the effects of a major dietary shift. I will let you know if they are right. At the end of the day I am stubborn as all hell. So on we go!
*Clearly I would not kill an actual white rhino for a sour key. Do I look like a sociopathic Texas cheerleader? It’s hyperbole, people.
My Hunter boots disappeared from my office. I feel really sad about this, because I don’t think stealing stuff should be a thing. So I called my sister.
Me: My boots disappeared from my office.
Alexis: That sucks, dude.
Me: I know, right?!! But to make myself feel better I’ve decided that they were stolen by like, a volunteer worker at a puppy shelter. And the shelter was going to close unless they could raise $50 in the next 24 hours and he was all “But WHAT ABOUT THE PUPPIES!?!?” And so, in an act of desperation, he took my boots. But he felt REALLY bad about it.
Alexis: Why was this puppy shelter director in your office building?
Me: I don’t know, he was friends with one of the cleaners or something. And he probably wrote me a little note explaining about the puppies, sealed with tears, and left it on my desk so I would know about the good thing that my boots were doing. But then it got blown onto the floor and the vacuum cleaner guy hoovered it up. And now I’ll never know.
Alexis: That seems like a…rational thought.
Me: Alexis, give me this. Otherwise I have to believe the truth – that they were probably stolen by some selfish, wealthy butthole, who sold them so he could buy another collector’s edition Darth Vader Pez dispenser on eBay to add to his vast Pez dispenser collection.
Alexis: Ok. These are possibly the two least likely scenarios for the disappearance of your boots. Have you checked your gym bag?
So I checked my gym bag but they aren’t there. At least those puppies will live out their lives in peace though.
You know what animals love? Being jammed into little outfits for our amusement.
This is why I forced my cat into little angel wings one Halloween. I don’t have any pictures of this event because she immediately started thrashing around, hissing, scratching and tearing around the house, which to the untrained eye might have looked like displeasure, but I recognized as a sort of joyful dance at being so adorable. (This was also pre-smartphone so I wasn’t tirelessly documenting every moment of my existence. For more information see my upcoming Instagram photo series “Dry elbows: a year’s journey from scaly to silky”)
So yeah. Costumes for pets are pretty rad.