I have caught the Third Day Flu. The notorious third day, what the fuck, my body’s constant glucose drip that I have so long gone out of my way to provide it with, is gone Flu.
It is the day when if you’re not sure you want to turn your life on your head for this that you give the hell up.
Some days it just sucks. And I have melted at these points. I have given up so many diet ghosts because I would really preferred to have somehow not been hit with this natural reality – and my preference in the moment trumped (fuck him and all he stands for) my ability to recall that this is what happens. There’s some sort of memory block that happens when I’m planning or thinking about low-carb or just reducing the horrifying amount of sugar I generally, casually, eat. Like having a child, I guess. You have to forget or you would never, ever do it again.
It happens and it sucks to get headaches and be both hungry and repulsed by food and needing to add water and feeling irritated about having to pee more frequently to accommodate the Suez Canal’s worth of water your supposed to be swallowing every day.
It sucks and rather than transcend, today I choose to do what I need to do and whine at the internet, my very safe place here upon the internet, that it sucks.
But I won’t quit. Wouldn’t that be hilarious and tragic if all it took was three days off the go go juice and I am broken down completely? Ready to capitulate to any terms for a handful of marshmallows (don’t tempt me, my friends.)
I will respect the fact that I am taking step 3 to get to step 365 – a step ostensibly somewhere far out from where I am right now. I am taking it like I take my vegetables: with a face that indicates I’ve just been hit in the face with a bitter, skunky baseball. Literally, my eyes will water at a piece of asparagus. But I think half of that is just not troubling to cook them in a way that will make them delicious rather than simply edible. The other half is just the training in my brain that anticipates punishment and a sense of “missing out” and sitting in chairs for hours after dinner refusing to eat the lima beans that were served to me. Lima beans that tasted like mold, like musty, rotten fuzz in a leathery shell. Hiding them in napkins to look as though I cleaned my plate.
This is not deep childhood trauma. This is just an association in my mind that I am well aware of and have build ruts into with how regularly I work at defending and recalling this stance. Vegetables are not gross. They are helpful and fine.
So I need to break down the aversion and eat more of them. Ugh. I will. It’s important.
The book: Life After Life by Kate Atkinson.