6 weeks of no sugar or starch leaves me dreading Friday Night
Cocktail?
Of course! I’ll put the fire on.
We gaze into the flames swirling a 12 year Woodford Reserve with a globe of ice and a twist of citrus. The week’s stress melts away into a beautiful buzz of Friday night pleasure.
Order a pizza?
Why not?
the Bourbon answers back.
Deep dish extra cheese please. Order a large, I know the kids will want a piece.
I will forever love our Friday nights of luxury. With one exception, during my annual 6 week “cleanse” I do not drink alcohol, or eat fat, sugar, and most carbs. It’s really a diet, but psychologically, the word cleanse makes me feel less deprived and doing something good for my health.
Get it?
I know you do.
For those 6 weeks Friday night is the hardest evening to get through. Depriving myself of relieving stress through food and alcohol takes a lot of courage and some planning. Mental preparation begins on Thursday when I plan my strategy of avoidance and begin chanting the mantra of-
Think Health. Bourbon and Pizza are evil.
Friday Night Week 1
With a pile of distractions and a pitcher of water, I casually say to my family-
I’ll be up here for the night
and head to the furthest point from temptation, my bedroom.
With determination I avoid the rhythm of ease heard from the kitchen and bury myself in a mindless page turner.
This isn’t so bad. I’m not sure they even ordered pizza.
Friday Night Week 2
Closing my eyes, I visualize a lush garden. Hanging from branches and abundance of fruit appears. I’m a little hungry and grab my water. Clenching my teeth I whisper-
I know they’re getting pizza.
Friday Night Week 3
I visualize the toxins and visceral fat melting away from my tummy but the smell of pizza floats up the stairway. The temptation is tortuous. I can’t keep loneliness and isolation out of my garden. A family of crows’ land in the branches waiting for left overs. The serpent’s head becomes a triangle of thick cheese on top of greatness.
Friday Night Week 4
I have an itch that can’t be scratched. The pillows are lumpy and my pile of distractions are boring. Instagram has too many ads. Self-Pity knocks quietly. With defenses down I open the door. I have to talk to someone.
Pizza just pisses me off!
She understands because Self-Pity is a woman.
In her sixties.
Friday Night Week 5
Self Pity introduces me to Pious. We walk together in my garden.
Eve wasn’t tempted by an apple. She bit into a slice of double crust extra pepperoni.
I sense the ice swirling in their drinks downstairs and hope Bourbon pushes them down the rabbit hole of over eating. So they can feel my pain. A good food hangover is what they deserve. Teach them a lesson. Laughter from downstairs breaks into my misery and I imagine they land on a soft bed of gooey melting cheese surrounded by sausage and green pepper.
Friday Night Week 6
Why does pizza exist?
Dehydrated from fat and lack of pleasure I hold Self-Pity’s hand. Last Friday without fun…I need something new. Walking out of my bedroom I wonder-
can I join them?
Next week
I say to myself.
I stay upstairs and enter the bedroom with a TV and turn on a cooking show.
Thank God they’re not making pizza.