A local yoga shop opened up and offered a Groupon for a juice cleanse—$99 for three days. I’m a sucker for deals. I have been developing the floppy man tits and abs of Meatloaf, so I decided to give it a try.
Now, if you’re like me, you’ve tried all sorts of short-term fixes. Most of those include excluding things. We cut out caffeine, sugar, alcohol, red meat, gluten, salt, chips, and so on. Sure, we lose a few pounds, but at what cost?
It’s day three and I’m fucking HANGRY!
Oh, and I’m shitting purple. That could have sent me in a panicked sprint to the ER, but I kind of expect it from all the beet juice I’ve been forcing down. Also, although I feel full, I crave an entire Papa John’s pizza dunked in garlic butter.
On a positive note, when I arrive at the yoga studio, I notice quite a flock of fit ladies. Hmm, am I a silver fox in the hen pen? Yep. Most of the yoga peeps are sans makeup with “up” hair and dirty feet. Fine enough for this lawn-drinking dummy. Yet, these peeps seem all business. I get the feeling any proposition would be met with silence and stink faces. I resist the urge to bang ole stinky feet.
I arrived this morning to get my juice. The sweet yogi behind juice bar asks pleasantly, “How’s it going?”
“Um, fine,” I answer, which is a fucking lie. Why do I do this? She would prefer an honest answer, right? Am I worried about offending her? Somewhat. So, why can’t I deliver the bad news in a kind fashion?
“I’m glad you asked, my dear. First, let me say I really love what you’ve done with the place. Great deal, that Groupon thing, too. Very generous of you. I appreciate it. Wow, so many lovely, healthy people. I’m so inspired.”
“Thank you. Are you enjoying the juice cleanse?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m enjoying it—not in the way, say, one enjoys a tender filet with caramelized onions. Let’s say, I’m tolerating it because I know it’s a small sacrifice to reboot my body and soul.”
“Oh, no. You don’t like it? I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, sweetie. It’s fine. I’m sure this is doing wonders for my oft-abused innards. The new, radiant me will come bouncing into here again in no time. Heck, I may even sign up for yoga classes.”
“Excellent. Well, you let me know. We have classes every day.”
“Thank you. Want to have sex with me?”
“What did you say?”
“I want to be flexible.”
“Oh. Sorry. I misheard you. Good. Yoga will help. Well, have a great day.”
I’m going to return home, toss these juice bottles, and make a high gluten/salt/fat/sugar omelet. Fuck cleanses.
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