Posted on

Whole 30: whole lot of pain or whole lot of yumminess? Part 5

Day thirty-one: Whoops! There was a whole process to reintroducing the non-compliant foods back into my diet? Oh bugger! I had forgotten about that bit. In one day, I had cancelled out all the gut detoxing of the past thirty days. No big deal. I’ll do the Whole 30 again and do the reintroduction properly in thirty-one days time. So… I did. Not a difficult decision when the bunch of carrots swung in front of me included: being at home (sigh), weight loss (six kilos), clear skin (no leprosy aka egg allergy blisters), more energy (so much should not be legal for one 50+ woman), no joint pain (tennis elbow is for cry-babies), working taste buds (still bouncing and singing), a love affair with unprocessed foods, and a folder full of recipes for delectable delights. 

Twelve months later, and you guessed it; she’s back on the Whole 30, this time with the whole household and some family members in Melbourne. We have a group on Messenger where we swap recipes and support each other. Jeanella’s ‘Ta Jean’ sweet potato and butternut pumpkin tagine (sans any actual tagine) has become a staple and some of my son’s contributions have become all-time favourite recipes: braised sirloin steak, pork rashers, chicken nicoise stew… drool drool drool. 

Now, more often than not, my meals are compliant. I rarely eat dairy, sugar, grains or legumes – other than lentils, as my dahl is delicious Darling (and it assists my bowels to perform unplugged). I brew my own kombucha and have 250ml servings when I feel the need for some acidity. And my relationship with alcohol has changed for the better. I’ll have the occasional gin – a top quality gin, of course – with cold tap water, no ice and no condiments. (Professional bar staff appreciate this order. Unprofessional bar staff screw their faces up, ask numerous times ‘are ya sure ya jus’ wan’ gin ‘n warda? From tha tap?’ and will nudge their fellow bar staffers whilst rolling their eyes heavenward before putting the drink on the bar.) A good gin needs no company, I say.

Below are actual entries from my Whole 30 Journal, which I kept for the first six days. (The names are changed to protect myself from the wrath of the actual persons.) I sigh with relief when I read this journal. Hindsight: what a wonderful 20/20 visioned thing! I fully recommend doing the Whole 30 when you are at home with your supportive, loved ones around you for the 30-40 days, as doing the Whole 30 when you’re aboard an emotional rollercoaster is not for the faint-hearted! Though, fear not; I have since recovered to live and learn a great deal more about everything (no future blog spoilers here…). 

My Whole 30 learnings are: 
* If possible, do it with others who are motivated and/or know what’s involved.
* Always have compliant food ready. (The urge to eat sneaks up stealthily.)
* Always have compliant food with you. (A bag full of things in the car: I was caught hangry and foodless in the vehicle a couple of times. The nail and teeth marks are still on the steering wheel and door.)
* Always check the labels. (Sugar or wheat or soy is in most packaged foods.)
* Always eat three substantial compliant meals a day. (Try not to snack.)
* Always eat a protein with each meal.
* Stay at son’s place for prepped compliant meals: so worth the dollars. (No, you cannot stay at my son’s place, but thanks for asking.)

Your body will tell you what foods work for it and, if you listen (and do the Whole 30 reintroduction correctly), it will tell what foods do not work for it. And, hopefully, you will not contract leprosy.

P.S. I still have some of the fish sauce, sauerkraut, pickled cucumbers, pickled kale, raw seeds, dirt, the word ‘compliant’ and a taste for cocomino from that first visit to the special boutique wholefoods grocery store.

Day One (Monday 8 January 2018)
Breaky: Two eggs, smoked salmon, mixed nuts (except peanuts)
Lunch: salad of cos leaves, alfalfa sprouts, asparagus, carrot, tomatoes, tuna and orange segments. (Yum)
Dinner: Handful of mixed nuts and seeds at 6, sweet potato tagine (very late, after 9pm); Jeanella made it W30 with pumpkin (no chickpeas, rice, yoghurt or honey: checked).
Kombucha and water throughout the day.
Shit day because of moving Miss X but stuck to it: can do anything if can do W30 during a day like today!

Day Two (Tuesday 9 January 2018)
Breaky: Nuts, salmon, boiled egg, salad
Lunch: nuts, salad
Dinner: slow cooked chicken curry and cauliflower rice
Kombucha and water throughout the day.
Another shit day because of moving Miss X but stuck to it. Caught up with Miss H, took computer in and test drove and bought Doug. Again, can do anything if can do W30 during a day like today.

Day Three (Wednesday 10 January 2018)
Breaky: fried (in coconut oil) eggs x 2, ham and tomatoes
Lunch: salad, nuts, apricots
Dinner: made sweet potato tagine (no tagine in sight) with pumpkin and roast potato pieces.
Kombucha: none today. I don’t think my body likes the fermented stuff or maybe it’s the carbonate added to it – shall test that out.
Had a quiet day starting with a walk on the beach and swim with Miss J, sending pics of Miss X’s new place to her, paying the storage place, watching Guardians of the Galaxy, snoozing and playing cards with Ms A, Mr M and Miss H. Getting annoyed – could it be W30 or period or both or plain old annoyed?

Day Four (Thursday 11 January 2018)
Breaky: nuts, apricots, mango
Lunch: left over sweet potato no tagine
Dinner: steak, salad, boiled potato
Kombucha: had some after 5pm and felt crap by 8:30pm. Hmmm… Jeanella’s brew was okay because it wasn’t carbonated. Making my own.
Picked up Doug and drove her down to Miss X, who then drove me to Miss H’s, lunch at Miss H’s, drove back to the coast, played cards with Miss H and Mr M. Thought Ms A was bringing in a bag of chips and my mouth salivated: it wasn’t chips but interesting reaction. Went to bed feeling very ordinary. Again I found I was annoyed: is it W30, or that people are eating and drinking non-compliant stuff around me when I’m not partaking, or period, or smugness, or a bloody shit couple of days? Weird!

Day Five (Friday 12 January 2018)
Break: nuts, apricots, mango
Snack: nuts
Lunch: left over sweet potato no tagine
Dinner: nuts, nuts, nuts, currants, nuts, olives and nuts! Started eating at 4pm, finished at 5:30-6.
Went to the beach for a walk, swim and puppy fix. Gah! It’s official. I’m hot, tired, cranky, overly-sensitive and annoyed. Time to go home to hubby. Housesitting son and partner’s house and staying Sunday night with them. Went to see 9:45am session of The Greatest Showman on Earth: great movie, great songs and lovely that it moved the lady sitting next to me to tears. Went to Roads to do Doug transfer and it’s too early, need to do it next week. Packed and said I’d be back up the coast on Sunday to beach walk, Cotton Tree market and go see a movie. Call from Mr R complaining about Miss X (already): jeepers that girl doesn’t learn. Time to swoop in, wave the magic wand and toughen up. No more Mrs Nice Chick methinks. Miss my computer 🙁

Day Six (Saturday 13 January 2018)
Breaky: carrot, eggs x 2, tomato, ham fried in olive oil
Lunch: potatoes x 2 microwaved and baked
Dinner: potatoes x 2 boiled and baked
Lazy day by myself watching TV after a hot, restless night, air cond. on, napped, spoke to Ms Pat, hubby and son. Am super emotional and am super itchy with the little blister things that have been popping up since Monday: may be eggs? Having potatoes (carbs) to see if that helps, should if it’s keto rash or an egg allergy. Gawd, the two combined are pretty shit! Again, stupid hot and can’t sleep; and far too much thinking going on, am upsetting myself, need to go back to being grateful and happy, stat!

*Note: As a writer of fiction loosely based on personal experiences, conversations, family, acquaintances and locations, please forgive any exaggerations. Apparently there is an automatic allowance when one holds a creative licence.

Posted on

Fork! I’m Fifty! Wine, Women and Song.

The best part about menopause … Ummm … There is no best part! Everything about it is forked! Okay, let me re-phrase that … It is great we are able to talk about menopause and peri-menopause more openly now. (How’s that? Better? Yes, thank you. You’re welcome. Fork off. Oh, okay.) 

Although, I would be very surprised if the preceding generation of women didn’t compare notes over cups of tea or an Aperol Spritz or two. (Too far back. What? You’ve gone too far back! Where? Aperol Spritz dates back to the 20s not the 60s. Right. And I care because? Oh, okay.) Scrap that last sentence … Our mums definitely would have had conversations about the ‘change of life’ over Vodka Martinis or Harvey Wallbangers as they were approaching their fifties. (Better? Cheers.)

We are generally given the ‘birds and bees’ talk at around eleven or twelve – possibly earlier for some, possibly later for others, possibly not at all for some and possibly it was far too traumatic for others. For me, it was an uncomfortable chat around a lounge chair with my mum and two sisters. I had no idea what the hell mum was talking about. I was a kid. Better than that, I was a tomboy. Get back to me when the boob fairy has given me a couple of well-formed boozies and the hair fairy has planted a small, well-formed pelt to cover my bits.

If mum mentioned anything about menopause or peri-menopause prior to me experiencing some of the effects, I have no memory of it (typical) and would have had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I was a kid. Better than that, I was a kid with well … nothing who grew up to own weird fried eggs resembling boozies. Ignorance was my preferred state of bliss. And really, what difference would it have made?

I was given the ‘birds and bees’ chat: I fell pregnant at twenty. Never a good student as the adventures, daydreams and stories I imagined in my head were always so much more entertaining. Much more so than having to learn something only to spit it back out almost instantly. (Tempted to say something about semen here but will restrain myself.)

Even if I had been warned of what was to come (see what I did there … that was an unintended pun … kind of proud of that one … I’d pat myself on the back if I wasn’t so scared of the bitch-slapping back fat), I would not have paid one bit of attention because I wasn’t experiencing it, there was nothing to relate it to.

Now, it is relatable. Now, I have conversations about it with my mum. Actually, it’s more me whinging, bitching and moaning and mum nodding. ‘I suppose I was lucky to have had a full hysterectomy in my thirties,’ she says, ‘I didn’t go through menopause,’ she tells me, yet again, for the umpteenth time, pushing the knife in further, as though saying ‘nah, nah, nar nar nah, that’s what you get for not listening to your mother, nah nah, nar nar nah!’ Well, my kids are being told about this major event in a woman’s life. Over and over again, until they have their climacteric radars at the ready.

If it wasn’t for the wonderful women around me, I would have been under the incorrect assumption that I was special and the only woman in the world to be going through this thing called peri-menopause/menopause. (Pausing for a moment to consider why this thing is called ‘men’ opause? What have men got to do with menopause? Answer: from the Greek word ‘men’ (month) and ‘pausis’ (halt). Common sense really. Though how common is common sense? Really?)

Back to my female friends of a similar age or affliction … Being able to talk, compare, whinge and bitch about all that is happening, was happening and is not happening any more is a bloody marvel. No pun intended. Particularly, as these sessions usually take place with some lovely wine or yummy gin.

Another favourite thing sacrificed: wine. It now hates me, with demon-spewing passion. I haven’t told the girls yet, feigning a preference for gin, but the truth will have to come out eventually. Even one teeny, tiny, little sip of wine and I end up sleeping in a puddle of my own sweat, waking up to my heart racing faster than Usain Bolt and a headache that would down a bull elephant.

Red wine is my arch nemesis now. Waaahhhhh!!! It was my favourite thing. With cheese and bread. More specifically: Brie and baguettes. Now, it’s: have some red wine at your peril, Jones. All hell breaks loose: literally. Diarrhoea for days and spewing up everything that has ever been swallowed by me … throughout my entire life … since my birth … since gestation. I have tested the theory – twice. It is a fact. Or does it have to be tested three times with the same outcome before a theory is accepted as fact? I think twice is sufficient. I am stupid, not demented.

Thank the heavens for gin! I have decided to become a gin wanker. I will test every brand of gin, list the botanicals of each together with the condiment/s best suited to each. My knowledge of gin will astound my peers, impress my family and possibly lead to my being recognised as a world-renowned aficionado of juniper juice. When I stop crying that is.

Unfortunately, all alcohol is fast becoming recognised as the cause of my night sweats, heart races and headaches, plus I really do not feel well the next day. Even from swallowing a teensy, tiny bit of Listerine. Doomed! Doomed! I am doomed! What is a fifty-something year old woman supposed to live for if she can’t drink alcohol? (Hubby nudges me. Oh, alright then.)

Giving the above more contemplation than it deserves, I put the ‘Best of the 80s’ CD on the stereo, whip out the vacuum cleaner and sing along with UB40 at the top of my lungs: ‘Red, red why iiiinnnnnneeeeee…’
(Fork! I’m fifty!)