When I studied abroad my junior year of college, I went skydiving. My friend, REM, had told me there was a drop zone in Interlaken, Switzerland, where the views were supposedly breathtaking. I had always wanted to jump from a ‘perfectly good airplane,’ so at that point Interlaken became a necessary stop on the Travel-Girls Tour de Europe.
It wasn’t until I was in Europe — Nottingham, England, to be exact — planning my month-long backpacking extravaganza, did I begin to recognize the doubt that crossed people’s faces when I mentioned my extreme sport intention. On a few different occasions, when I shared my plans, I was met with a smirk, a scoff, a sarcastic “ok, have fun,” a faux-look of disbelief. Having been born a stubborn pain in the arse, I accepted these reactions of doubt as the challenge they were obviously meant to be.
I now had no choice; I was jumping out of a perfectly damned good airplane whether I wanted to or not.
And I did… and I loved it… and because of that bet that I made up in my head… I went back and did 25 more jumps in attempt to get my certification — which I don’t have, but that’s a long story.
Anyways, the reason I’m telling you this is because tomorrow I embark on another challenge—a two-week detoxification cleanse.
What does this have to do with skydiving? I’m telling you about it.
Now that I’ve told you, now that it’s available to anyone surfing the Google box… well, I have to bloody do it.
It’s not hard to find, The Master Cleanse is advertised all over Mr WWW. But I actually got wind of it from a friend of my mom’s. He’s completed it numerous times, always raving about the effects. He raved enough that I am pretty sure he recruited others from their work clique. I was totally willing to take his word for it, but just to be sure, I scoured the Interweb for other’s reviews, opinions, experiences, advice and [in some cases, graphic] stories. The end was mostly the same, people feel great!
I’m not tremendously unhealthy, but compared to periods of time in the not far off past, and compared to what I would like to be, I’m not really on the dart board.
I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with food. I love it; it loves me; we spend way too much time together; I resent it; it resents me; annnnd scene. Worst yet, I love all the wrong foods. I try to eat the right ones, and I recognize how much better I feel physically and mentally when I do. But leave me in a room alone with a pizza, and you can say ciao to the saucy vixen. (No, seriously, I ate a whole pizza that was meant for 4 of us because I was left alone in the room with it. The others weren’t happy.)
In conclusion, I guess part of the reason I want to do this is to prove that I can and to establish a sense of control over food. But also just to recognize what I consider to be an unhealthy relationship with food. Well not as much food, but as the process of eating it. Don’t they say that the first step is admitting you have a problem? Well, hello there, my name is ME, and I eat too much — and for the wrong reasons.
So starting tomorrow I will be putting nothing but a lemonade concoction of water, fresh lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper into my body. I’ve even spent the last two days on a quasi-fast, eating only fruit and veggie juice, to help prep my stomach into it’s upcoming liquid diet.
Knowing I was going to embark on this “adventure,” as I’ve titled it, I allowed myself one last yummy meal with my ladies on Tuesday night…
… four slices of NY-style pizza.