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Masster Cleanse

Updated: Jan 26, 2018

This post is from a pre-child, pre-married life, we're talking circa 2005. But if anyone is interesting in doing a cleanse, it may help...

I’ve never been more aware of my ass. More specifically, I’ve never been more aware of what’s coming out of my ass.

The past six days have been a blur of starving, shitting and drinking a concoction of fresh lemon juice, maple syrup, cayenne pepper and water. This is all you ingest for ten to 40 days. You’ve all heard of it, it’s the Master Cleanse. My close friend, Stefanie said it changed her life, it was cathartic and she purged her soul of unwanted demons. She made amends with those she needed to and cut ties with those unworthy of her friendship, she told those she loved how she really felt about things. All great, but when she said, “It also got rid of all my cellulite,” I literally heard sweet angels singing and saw light emanating from the seemingly innocuous little yellow book detailing the Master Cleanse. And with those magic words I knew I’d be fasting for ten days.

So, I opened my planner to see when I could best work it into my schedule. I mean, I have a life. I have weddings and showers and parties and friends visiting, when can one possibly find ten days to not eat or drink any alcohol? It was two glorious months before I could find the time. Had I known what I was getting myself into, I would have savored those months vehemently.

What I didn’t know until after committing (and by “committing” I mean talking a ton of shit) to this little project, is that every morning you have to drink 32 ounces of water diluted with 2 teaspoons of uniodized sea salt. Try to wrap your head around that. We’ve all been in the ocean and tasted the absolute horror of a mouthful of saltwater. I was about to embark on a mission of drinking that. On purpose. A lot of it. For ten days straight. On purpose.

Are you F-ing kidding me?

What this tasty little number does is create the most foul water-poop known to man. I mean, this is worse than vegan poop. It’s worse than baby poop. It’s worse than shitting out an entire dead rodent. My cat, who follows me everywhere, always curls herself up at my feet when I’m on the toilet. The second day of the cleanse she assumed the position, about three seconds into it, she raised her sweet head, took in a couple of sniffs, and charged out of the bathroom like she was shot out of a cannon. I haven’t seen her since.

Now, there are some perks, first of all, there’s absolutely no strain on the body, you feel as if you’re just pissing out of your ass. You honestly wouldn’t even know you were going at all if you couldn’t hear it hitting the toilet water. Second, you get to actually wipe and look at the toilet paper after, and better yet, before you flush the toilet, you have no qualms with studying your handiwork. It’s a rite of passage. I realize men often do this on a regular basis. Most women; however, do not. I have no desire to see my shit. So, sue me. But, for now, I’m all about it; I must see what could possibly smell like that. And, what’s excreted is the color of insane. There is simply no such color in existence. What I’m hoping to see is something horrific that matches the taint, but what I actually see is insane-colored toilet water, nothing solid at all. It’s as simple as that.

Let’s discuss food, shall we? Now, this is risky for me, considering I’m only on day six and have four whole traumatizing days to go. I’m hungry. Stefanie told me while doing this she felt an overwhelming urge to be healthy from this point on. That’s not happening to me so much. I’m yearning for pizza, mac ‘n cheese, fries, Taco Bell, a fucking Coke would be out of this world.

Dear God.

In a conniving attempt to lure my cat out of hiding I put some treats out for her. The smell of fake tuna wafted out of the treat container and I instantly started salivating. How many calories are in a cat treat? I mean, they’re tiny. And, look, they’re hairball controlled and made with vegetables that indoor cats need, they’re, like, entirely healthy. Like one cat treat can make a difference in this cleanse? Like one cat treat would even matter? Like I’m actually considering eating a cat treat?

But, it goes beyond that even. I’ve found myself talking to the lonely and melancholy food in my refrigerator. I’ve recently happened upon the best butter ever. Organic Smart Balance vegan butter. I’m not a health nut, I’m not a vegan. I am; however, inventing things to put this butter on. It’s that good. It tastes like butter is supposed to taste. Rich, creamy, soft, enticing, luxurious, smooth; God, what I’d do to that butter right now if I could. Every day, when I open the door of my refrigerator, I see him staring at me, pleading with me for my attention. Wondering why it’s waned, why I’ve strayed. And I voice my disdain to him, allowing him to see that my disparagement mimics that of his own. I try to keep his spirits up, telling him, “Soon, butter, soon we’ll be together. I love you vegan butter.” And I hastily shut the door before he sees the tears glistening in my eyes.

And the sad thing is, on most days, hunger is the least of my problems. Depriving your body of food, takes a toll on the functionality of the brain. Formulating even the most rudimentary sentence can be devastatingly problematic. Remembering common words proves too demanding. Concentration exists in another realm. And, let’s talk about the attitude problem I’ve come to know as my personality.

I’m a bitch. Officially.

I don’t smile when I see a puppy, I don’t hold the elevator door, I certainly don’t call my friends back. I just want to be left alone. Is that so hard for everyone to understand? I mean, friends are asking me to dinner.

Have they lost their fucking minds?

Well, you don’t have to eat, just bring your drink.” Umm, shut the fuck up. Like I wanna sit in a restaurant with all you food-eaters and wine-drinkers and finger-lickers and happy-go-luckies. I’m experiencing something here. Something real. I’m becoming a better fucking person. So, no, I won’t come watch you inhale your dead cow. Not until next week, when I can inhale one with you. Don’t call here again."

I talk a big tough game, but don’t let me fool you. I can barely get out of bed most of the time. I’m so weak and tired, I’m worse than a 90 year old after 100 jumping jacks. It’s grueling to keep my shoulders pulled back. It’s testing to switch a lamp on. It’s a challenge to pull my zipper up. My motor skills are seriously lacking. The above-mentioned 90 year old could sneeze in my direction and I’d be face-to-ground faster than a coke whore who dropped her coke.

But I promise you this, when this thing is over, if I have even a dot of cellulite on my ass, there will be one less Stefanie in the world. Although, a friend in my office told me I looked gaunt yesterday. I mean, that almost makes this worth it. Gaunt. Beaming, I replied, “Thank you.”

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