What the hell was I thinking? If it was solely the challenge of doing the Whole 30, the whole experience most definitely would have been wholly and substantially more enjoyable. Little did I know that coming up was one of the most emotionally challenging weeks of my adulthood – and that’s sayin’ something. Of course, with her impeccable timing, she-bitch demon decides to stick my hand up. ‘She’ll do it. She’ll do it. She’ll do the Whole 30 with you even though she doesn’t know what it is and under what conditions she should do it.’ I hate that she-bitch demon, and her impeccable timing.
She-bitch demon knew I would put up as much resistance as a sleeping kitten. For various reasons – house-sitting for my sister, spending time with a girl-friend from Hobart for a week, volunteering at Woodford Folk Festival, family Christmas on the Sunshine Coast – I had been away from home and staying either in Brisbane or on the Sunshine Coast for close to two months. I was weak with homesickness, nauseous with hubby hankering, gagging with puppy pining and my computer had died.
Day one: Monday… why do most of us start things on a Monday? It’s a thing, isn’t it? Sorry… Distracted momentarily… Day one: breakfast was easy; some fried eggs and smoked salmon did the trick. It almost felt like I was eating at a trendy café. I would have paid myself for the meal except I’d spent all my money at the special boutique wholefoods grocery store and on my son and his partner’s prepared compliant meals. Lunch: I knew I was heading out, so I made a salad to go – cos lettuce leaves, alfalfa sprouts, asparagus, carrot, tomatoes, tuna and orange segments, delicious. (Perhaps next time I will add the tuna and tomatoes to the salad just before I eat it. Suffice to say, the salad was a little mushy albeit quite tasty.)
In amongst mouthfuls of wilted lettuce leaves and soggy sprouts, there were phone calls from a person in need. Mount up gentle altruistic folk; there yonder be a damsel in distress. Comfortably seated in my trusty steed (aka Bee, the bright yellow Hyundai Accent hatchback), I went to help this needful person move from one end of town to the other. It was horrendous. The temperature was in the high thirties and it was as humid as hell (one is assuming there is humidity in hell). Though, as I was (and still am for the most part) a person of my word, I rocked up and assumed the position… of sucker!
Of course, I was the only person helping. Of course, mine was the only steed… rather, car being used. Luckily, packing aficionado was my middle name. Three hours and eight litres of perspiration later, the car was bulging down the road with the belongings of one grumpy toddler and a clueless young adult. (No mention will be made of the angry male undertones emanating from within the abode, growing louder with each door slam and item removed from house to car.) Thank goodness I had eaten my compliant salad before mounting up.
The plan was to drop my carload at the new across-the-other-side-of-town accommodation and then I would head to my girlfriend’s place for dinner and a catch up. The plan was doomed. Like an ill-knitted jumper, it quickly unravelled. The new flatmate had his nose out of joint because I was helping and became confrontational – dickhead alert! Sorted him out: swat. I flapped my chicken wings and splattered him with yet another litre of perspiration, held in reserve for such occasions. And yes, I did warn clueless young adult against moving in with sweat-wet dickhead. And yes, we’ve all had that one flatmate. And yes, it turned out they couldn’t move in until the next day. Fork!
It was all too stressful for CYA (clueless young adult). No, she didn’t want to come to my girlfriend’s place. No, she had nowhere else to go. No, she doesn’t want me to come up with a solution. No, she just wants to run away and leave me holding the bulging carload of her belongings and her child. At this point, I’m fading fast. My blood sugar level has dropped and my hands are starting to shake. I’m feeling slightly faint when… The she-bitch demon bitch slapped me with my own chicken wing. Right!
I confiscate most of CYA’s money, drop her at the nearest train station and make for the sanctity of my friend’s house. There was a smattering of catching up done in between grumpy toddler demands. There was an introduction to sweet potato tagine (warning, no tagines were involved in the making of this dish), for which I am forever thankful. There was the movie Moana to which grumpy toddler fell asleep, for which I am forever thankful. What a beep beep beepity beeped day! And that was only day one.
Day two: An very late breakfast, unplanned. You know when you are hot, tired, haven’t been sleeping well because of the heat, have appointments to get to, have grumpy toddlers to wrangle and your fuel providing, sanity giving, energy boosting breakfast is late? You know that feeling? Well… My altruistic friend (bless her little furry nanna blanket), loves cooking, loves good organic food, is vegan (but eats eggs), is borderline obsessive/compulsive when it comes to her kitchen and pantry (a converted dining room) and loves a good chinwag. I’m more of the quick, efficient cook variety; my friend talks then cooks, talks then cooks. So things were delayed. Plus I’d had a fight with the grumpy toddler. He started it! I finished it. No more pre-breakfast swimming in the pool for him. Suffice to say, it took a little longer than anticipated to have breakfast of the perfectly boiled egg and salad. A great start to the second day, love that irony, and a note to self about hanger-management.
After squeezing grumpy toddler into his seat, wedged between clothes, toy baskets and bags of unknown contents, we head to the pre-arranged pick up spot and collect CYA. It is another high thirty-degree and ridiculous humidity day, of course. We go to the new abode and, as fast as my chicken wings could flap, unload the car. I explained to CYA the easy-to-follow-budget her caring elders have put together, showed her how to divvy up her funds so she can pay everything and have some left for savings, gave her a pep talk, bolstered her confidence and splattered perspiration over new flatmate’s face as I handed over grumpy toddler and waved goodbye. Ironic, the speed limit was ten kilometres per hour when I needed to race away. The delayed breakfast had put me behind the eight ball. I had a date with my niece and an appointment with Apple about my computer, on which my return home would depend.
I collected my niece and left my beloved laptop with Apple. Ravenous and desperate, I excused myself, and without further ado or decorum, sat on the curb in the car park of the shopping centre (the only shade I could find), and ate another soggy salad. (Would I never learn? Yes. The next salad was not soggy.) The drive to the Sunshine Coast was lovely. No trying to talk sense into a CYA, no fighting with grumpy toddlers, no bitch slapping by the she-bitch demon, a clear view from all of my mirrors, air conditioned comfort and a satisfied appetite: bliss.
That afternoon, I hammered the second last nail into my best intentions coffin: I bought CYA a car. (Would I never learn? Yes. The car was not soggy.) On the bright side, dinner was delicious: slow cooked chicken curry and cauliflower rice. Yum. On the dull, flat side, I had missed my husband’s birthday by allowing myself to become involved in CYA’s futile drama. Ouch, what was that biting me on the bum? Oh, of course, it was the sharp, jagged teeth of my best intentions drawing blood…