Spring break looms over us, and with it the awkward half naked scenarios to expose my squishy pale man-breasts. Brisk strides to class and the occasional Loose Leaf Salad ‘-‘- diet and exercise regimen had failed me. I sought to expedite getting in shape, so I turned to my personal thinspirator, but Googling weightloss had proved disheartening in the vague and ignorant results I got, like ‘weight train’ and ‘proper form.’ I suddenly recalled a better, more dramatic solution. One I had read or heard about in a medical journal, maybe a gossip column . . . I vaguely remember MUSE columnist Charlie mentioning better kidney function and a collarbone Karl Lagerfeld could be proud of, and in that instant I resigned myself to this master plan.
On Monday, February 17, I began a week-long juice cleanse. Liquefying fruits and veggies sounded much more bearable than that masochistic cayenne pepper-maple-lemon juice Beyonce was chugging. I did my own research and consulted my mother’s holistic nutritionist, then dropped two Benjies ($200 for those of you not up on your rap . . .) on an industrial sized juicer from Bed Bath & BEYOND. The preparation, I’ll admit, was far more exciting than the actual process, rendering my taste buds impotent for seven solid days, which got dull by hour two.
Blame has already been cast, but the idea to do this together came from Charlie and fellow columnist Tiffany, as they roped me into kicking off a cleanse in some sadistic form of voyeuristic journalism. In any case, we were ALL supposed to cleanse until our eyeballs became ivory white, our skin porcelain, and our silhouettes as waifish as the recent Lindsay Lohan; but that was a bubble burst when some party event inevitably hit Facebook and suddenly vodka, beef and carb cleansing seemed a higher priority for my fellow musketeers.
I managed to persevere, however. Through the entire week. And I have survived to expose the truth: there is a time and a place for a proper juice cleanse.
The time is in your late 50s. The place is Boca Raton. Not when you’re a twenty-something and in the prime of your college days as you suffer from the wafting smell of a T. Anthony’s pizza at 2 a.m. on a Friday night following the party at which you abstained from drinking anything ‘-‘- yes, even liquor ‘-‘- while your friends gleefully lick their chomps after drunkenly devouring a size large right before your watering eyes.
I could eat and drink veggies until I pooped V8, but I’d still be living a lie.
There are few things in life that give me more pleasure than plowing through an overflowing bowl of pasta late at night. After a debaucherous and hazy evening of partying, I’m poised with one hand gripping a fork, the other holding me up against my kitchen counter. The hangovers, the indigestion and regrets can hold off ’till morning, but in that moment of disregard, when my mouth becomes full with salty, starchy carbohydrates, I am drunk not only with alcohol, but ecstasy, and nothing else matters.
With that said, my college lifestyle has certainly put a toll on my organs. Midnight orders from CampusFood.com and a philosophy of ‘getting my money’s worth’ at the D-halls, has made me squishy. But, everybody has regrets. My regrets recently sounded like ‘I regret eating Tiffany’s Vermont honey with my bare hands,’ and, ‘I regret spending all my Convenience Points on Starbucks and Camel Lights,’ but post-cleanse, I am an enlightened man. My only regrets these days are not savoring my meals as well as the company with whom I have to enjoy them.’
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