Please, don’t panic. I’m not going to write about every one of the thirty days! I’m not masochistic or sadistic enough (?), for which I am grateful and predict others are too. Speaking of S&M: kombucha. I had been drinking the produced, store-bought version as it is compliant, according to the Whole 30 website, and added some variety to my fluid intake. I had been drinking a large bottle of the store-bought version each day for two days. My track record when it came to carbonated drinks was not in the least medal worthy. With this in mind, I stopped drinking kombucha on the third day. If my thoughts had not been otherwise occupied with CYA and grumpy toddler, I possibly would have investigated thoroughly kombucha, the suggested intake and homemade versus purchased.
As I was to find out later and post inaugural Whole 30, one had been consuming far too much each day, way over the 250ml recommended, and one’s body preferred the homemade variety. I have been brewing my own kombucha for twelve months now and have given my SCOBY mothers the names Scooter and Scarlett, both from my son’s SCOBY contribution. (The following may be upsetting to some: Jeanella’s contribution, Scott, died shortly after arriving home, his/her/its scabby SCOBY body was found moulding in a dry container… whoopsy!)
Day three and I was eating much more than I normally would and my clothes were becoming a little looser – not much but enough to be noticeable – interesting, my own little paradox. My son’s partner had told me that weighing was a Whole 30 no-no, but that she had taken a photo of herself in her togs the first day and would take another on the thirtieth day. So I copied her; as best a 50+ sloth-woman can copy a 30-something super-cut cross fitter. I whipped out the bathers and tried to master the art of taking a selfie in the mirror (to which I successfully failed but, as it was for personal use… meh, it was good enough). And whilst one has one’s bathers on, why not go for a walk along the beach and a little dip? Why not indeed? So I did. Ah, that was more like it… a relaxed day of eating compliant food, chilling out at the beach, watching fluff on the TV and feeling something like my old self. Though by nightfall, I was feeling sensitive and annoyed – I was way too emotional.
Apparently, it was not at all unusual to have had emotional reactions to doing the Whole 30. As part of the detox, there were all sorts of chemicals leeching out of my body along with withdrawal symptoms (from sugar in particular). I was sensitive, short-tempered, teary, headachy – oh, wait, it could have been PMT. Nah, I know the difference between being PMT bitch and now being Whole 30 detox bitch – they are different bitches (poor world).
Day four: I was running around like a headless, sweaty chook – picking up cars on the coast, dropping cars off on the other side of Brisneyland – a foolish, headless, sweaty chook. I had collected the twenty year-old Toyota Corolla, affectionately dubbed Doug, and driven it to CYA. Who, by the way, was not impressed in the slightest with Doug: I should have driven Doug off into the sunset right then and there, regardless of the fact that it was morning. However, there ensued more bitch slapping and perspiration spraying… to myself, for falling for the CYA’s sob stories and acting on best intentions. There was a saying bubbling up to the surface of my brain… ‘God save us from people with good intentions,’ or ‘Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions.’ Something along those lines – though, I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself evil… yet. A few more days exposed to CYA’s drama whilst on the Whole 30 could soon change that.
CYA and Doug dropped me off in Brisbane; I was meeting my niece for lunch. After a hair-raising, am-lucky-to-have-survived trip (who knew she could not drive even though she has had a licence for six years, gah!), I thought ‘what the hell have I done?’ Whilst CYA had an extensive list of things not to do when driving, written in my own hand and stuck to the dashboard, and although we’d had a serious conversation about her lifestyle with promises of change, taking responsibility and being accountable only seconds prior to me exiting the vehicle, the sense of dread was overwhelming for the future of CYA and her grumpy toddler. I felt I had just hammered in the last nail of my best intentions coffin.
Lunch with my niece was lovely; though trying to pull oneself together was like trying to eat san choy bau when the lettuce cup breaks followed by an oozing torrent of food and juice dribbled down the front of your new white top. (Oooh, san choy bau – bet I could make a compliant version!) I was emotional, tired, hot and utterly drained. Almost, in fact exactly, like Roger Federer was after losing to Rafael Nadal in the 2009 Australian Open. Except that I am not male. I play tennis as though it were a game of squash – why isn’t it the ball coming back to me? Oh, because you’ve hit it so hard it’s in the backyard of the house five blocks down. And, I’d have a huge smile on my face if I were that close to Rafael. I digress…
The rest of the day was spent worrying, interjected with a drive back up the coast, a couple of games of cards, some salivating over a false-alarm bag of hot chips (meat from the butcher wrapped in… wait for it… butchers paper! Who’d have thunk it?), some more kombucha testing and inevitable fall out, and a huge dollop of cantankerousness. Sometimes you just need to talk to someone without them contributing in any way to the conversation: just to get it out, just to relieve some of the pressure building up. (Oooh, pork in the pressure cooker – bet I could make a compliant version of that!)