It’s hard to avoid starting each post these days with, “Holy cow! I’ve done this for 35 days!” or “Holy cow! I’ve done this for 40 days!” or “Holy cow, I’ve done this for 42 days!” Each day is a new milestone and the bigger the numbers the more amazing it sounds.
Early on in my research I spent time with a woman who did a 92 day juice fast. With “juice,” one at least gets the benefit of variety: orange, apple, carrot, etc. But with my little adventure, it’s very mundane. And so I’ll happily meet my 46 day goal, but I don’t think I’d want to fool with it a whole lot longer.
To be honest, I’m just plugging away to the end right now. There have been no late revelations or hallucinations that I would consider notable. Has the spiritual element left me? That’s a good question. I’m just doing it to finish my goal at this point.
What I really am at this stage of the ball game is an expectant mother. I have been nesting. Nesting, I tell you. That’s the word for it.
I’ve been puttering about fixing problems in the basement, working in the yard and planning out meals. I’ve been cooking some for the boys, I ordered a pork belly and shoulder to smoke and have been fooling around with spice rubs that I won’t use for a week. “We’re out of paprika and brown sugar,” I tell Michelle, and she looks at me like I’m insane.
I can’t help it. I have a greater appreciation for my bounty, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to getting back to it.
(Somehow, I bumped up to 139 pounds today.)