I'm reading this month's Esquire, and one of their writers wrote an article about Gwenyth Paltrow's website, Goop. The author spent a few weeks living his life as if Gweneth were his tall, blonde, pale, almighty lord and savior, and that every word typed from her long, graceful fingers was enrobed in gold and should serve as a guide to life. Yes, it was tongue-in-cheek, but he actually did some the things she wrote about and seemed none the worse for wear because of it.
Do I love Gwenyth Paltrow? No. Do I loathe Gwenyth Paltrow? No. Other than her obviously superior genes that allow her to remain lithe and willowy into her 30's, unlike many of us that are less "lithe and willowy" than we are "squishy and teetering", I really have no reason to dislike her. In fact, I dare say we would probably like each other well enough, given ample wine.
The thing is, the one item he did that got my attention was a 7-day "cleanse" that Lady G recommended for post-overindulgent grossness. The author followed it, felt better, and though he went back to his wicked, gluttonous ways after the fact, he said he actually felt better than before he started. Much better.
How does this apply to me, Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, underpants whisperer extrordinaire, you ask?
Well, lately my life seems like an endless whirl of overindulgent grossness. Multi-course dinners, bread, cheese, butter, wine, dessert, huge breakfasts on the weekends, wine, more cheese, more wine, red meat, pork, how about another glass of wine, and then...more. And more. And more...
You get it.
Am I going to stop enjoying such eye-rolling, tongue-lolling pleasures such as lamb bacon (holy hell- that was good), creme brulee', cheese to infinity, mid-rare beef and Doritos dipped in duck fat?
Hells to the no.
But...even I need a break. My insides feel as polluted as the gutter outside of a college bar on a Saturday night. I feel like I have gravy coursing through my veins. I worry that calculating my cholesterol would require an abacus, a Nobel-prize winning biologist, three calculators and fourteen days. I fear that my heart will give out the next time I squeal with glee after getting a double-yolker egg.
(waving white flag) I give.
Well, for a week I'll say goodbye to things like last night's dinner:
(beet salad with chickpeas, feta and citrus vinaigrette. Balsamic-chile marinated chicken on scallion-fresh corn polenta with tomato-roast corn vinaigrette)
And say hello (!) to tomorrow's dinner:
I'll also say goodbye to a bunch of cash, as groceries for just PART of this week's delights came to $111.00. Ugh.
Oddly enough, however, I'm kind of excited for this. Will I make it all week? Will I start hallucinating from hunger? Will I get arrested for attacking a small child for their sweaty handful of M&M's?
Only time will tell.
I guess I'm putting this all out there so that if I go down, I go down in a blaze of public humiliation. Y'all can witness the very moment (or close to it) when I lose my shit completely and scarf an entire box of Cheez-its and an entire family-size pizza in a record-breaking 32 seconds. You can be there to shame me, 'cause I know how much you like to witness apocalyptic failures. In advance, I say...you're welcome.
I'll be posting every day throughout "The Cleanse", but be prepared- you're getting it all. The good, the bad, and probably the poo. Hi- have we met? I'm Whiskey and I love to overshare. I also love one-eyed cats and incontinent monkeys, but that's neither here nor there.
If this kills me, make sure Classic Gwen gets my celebrity underpants collection as well as my husband. I owe her that much for cheating on her.