Dearest Rachel –
On paper – or on the calendar, anyway – I gave up this weekend; I didn’t manage to fast at all. Both days saw me eating something, despite the fact that, apart from December (because, you know, parties and other holiday get-togethers), I’ve been trying to go without when I’m working the booth on weekends (which has been more of them than not). But by Sunday afternoon, I realized I couldn’t do that, and fixed myself something to eat.
Still, before you get too hard on me (not that you ever would; you never goaded me into doing this sort of thing in the first place), I ought to give you a certain amount of context. You see, while I may have failed on a calendar basis, I did manage to go a full day without eating; in fact, I managed about thirty-three hours. The reason I ‘gave up’ – if you still insist on calling it that – was because I’d been in this particular situation before, and knew full well what it could result in if I let things go until this morning.
I’m pretty sure I’ve explained it to you before –so forgive me if I’m repeating myself – but my standard procedure for these fasting/workout weekends is to grab something for lunch before I head to the booth on Saturday, and make that my final meal until after I complete my workout on Monday. You might remember how, over Halloween weekend, I missed the chance for lunch, and made my breakfast on Saturday my last meal, with… less than stellar results. After nearly fainting when I got off the exercise bike, I knew that I didn’t want to repeat that experience again. It doesn’t help that I’ve gotten to the point where I’m putting in a more strenuous workout than I was back then, where I’m burning a minimum of a thousand calories with each visit – imagine how much more dizzy I might make myself if I pushed myself as hard as I currently do.
So why, you might ask, if I know that going the full forty-eight hours and pushing myself on Monday morning are such a problematic combination, did I put myself in such a situation again in the first place? Well… sometimes that’s the hand life deals you, honey. I grabbed a small breakfast – a bowl of cereal and half a box of blackberries (had to get some fruit and whole grain to get back on my, erm, regular schedule after the previous couple of days) – on Saturday morning, headed off to the men’s Bible study, and went directly from there to see Dad at the convalescent home. It is, after all, only a few blocks further down Euclid from church. From there, there didn’t seem much point in heading anywhere but back to church at my assigned time; and as a result, I didn’t bother with lunch that day. In fairness, I wasn’t exactly hungry at that moment, either; I’m far too used to going much longer periods without eating at this point.
And, indeed, I made it through both my shifts on Saturday night and Sunday morning without incident, although I did sustain myself during the morning with a couple of cups of coffee – which might’ve horrified you, except that you would’ve probably rationalized that it wasn’t you having to drink the stuff. But by the middle of Sunday afternoon, as I was standing around in Dad’s room (the whole family having gathered there, and there only being so many chairs – or even room for so many chairs), I realized that I was feeling just a little bit lightheaded. Nothing terribly serious; I wasn’t about to pass out or anything like that, but it was enough to decide that things were a little amiss. If I didn’t know better (and had anything left in my stomach that hadn’t been digested), I might’ve thought I was growing slightly nauseous.
With all that in mind (and how could it not be?), upon leaving Dad in the care of Jenn (who’d just returned from her vacation in Florida with her family over the New Year’s holiday) and Mom, I headed home to prepare myself a snack. Sure, I could push the envelope when it comes to self-denial, but previous experience had already demonstrated that I probably shouldn’t. Nothing too over-the-top, though – just enough to tide myself over until morning, and hope things wouldn’t get out of hand.
They may have, to be honest, honey. It started out reasonably enough, with a slice of bread covered in leftover marinara sauce (from one or another of the boys’ recent pizza deliveries – neither Daniel nor I are still accustomed to throwing out unused sauces, thanks to your training. At least I finally put several of them to good use) and shredded mozzarella. Then another slice of toast, this time with peanut butter and the last of the cheddar block I’d started with the Christmas soufflé. All well and good so far, and I even performed the mitzvahs of clearing several leftovers in the process. However, emptying a half-eaten bag of Cheet-os (is that snack well-named, or what?) and a few squares of chocolate with mint filling might have been a bridge too far. I might protest that I finished something else off that was just lying around, but in my heart, I think I know better that to consider that a virtuous act.
That having been said, honey, I did tip the scales two pounds lighter this morning than I had on Sunday (and I didn’t even bother to check on Saturday morning, so concerned was I that I’d ballooned over the two-thirty mark from Friday’s indulgence) even before leaving for the gym, so maybe I’d gotten away with something. On the other hand, it could be easily argued that I could have been in that much better shape if I’d just stopped with the two pieces of toast.
Apropos of absolutely nothing, thought, on my way to the gym, I caught up with an SUV at the intersection in front of the railroad tracks, sporting bumper stickers over both of its taillights saying “Caution: Student Driver.” You and I would have had a good laugh at spotting that; what high school student would be up and about, driving in the dark at five-thirty on a Monday morning? I realize that such things aren’t likely feasible, but I wonder if those sorts of warning stickers ought to be made with a magnetic backing, rather than an adhesive; that car’s not always going to be driven by a novice (and ideally, that car ought to outlast said novice’s learning period – unless they’re really a novice, and wreck it), so at some point, they ought to be able to be removed from the back of the car. Then again, we’ve seen “Baby on Board” signs on cars that are so faded that said baby is likely the student driver by now.
Anyway, that’s my weekend (and morning) for you. I’ve nothing particularly interesting to relate about the morning workout (apart from learning how to speed up the stair climber past level 10 – yes, just like Spinal Tap, I’ve figured out how to run the dial up to 11. I’m not sure what it stands for – clearly, it’s not 11 steps per second or anything like that– but it’s still fast enough that the discovery is sort of a “thanks I hate it” type of thing. Still, I’ve climbed more steps in a shorter time than I ever have before, for what that’s worth), and I’ve got to get on with the day. It’s Monday, after all, and while that doesn’t carry the same awful weight that it used it when I was part of the work farce, it still means I have a fair number of responsibilities to take care of, and “miles to go before I sleep,” as the poet once put it – despite the fact that I could probably see myself going back there right now if I didn’t have them to deal with.
So keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 