I’ve tried cleanses before. I mean, sort of. This was back in the heralded days of the Master Cleanse – a ten-day, masochistic, starvation-fest consisting of glorified, cayenne-spiked lemonade and salt-water colon cleanses. For ten whole days, that’s all you got. Its intention was to rid your system of any toxins that had accumulated along the way, rest your intestinal tract, and start a clean slate for your bill of health. While all of these things seemed like motivation enough to start, food was always motivation enough to quit, and quit I did.
My first attempt lasted about two hours, nearly half the time it took for me to drive to the supermarket, park, and purchase the required ingredients. My justification for quitting? I didn’t really have that many vices in the first place, plus I’d be much healthier from here on out. Scout’s honor.
The second attempt ran two hours longer. Right before lunch I thought about how much better a meal that required teeth would be than another swig of mouth-puckering bullshit. So I caved. My third and final attempt at the Master Cleanse lasted an entire twenty-four excruciating hours. Having been deprived of coffee and other things I generally enjoy over the course of a day, I was TKO’d, lying comatose on my shabby chic chaise with a miserable headache and a rapidly declining will to live. The next morning I woke up, said, “Fuck it,” out loud and had me some toast. Mmmm, mmmm, good.
Since that time, I’ve come to doubt the benefits of the Master Cleanse itself, especially the claim that a lemon contains all the nutrients a person needs. If that were true, we’d be shipping fucking lemons out to developing nations and saving the lives of starving, anemic children. I call bullshit.
For the better part of my twenties, I’ve been an absurdly healthy person, by hazard of my trade (model) and the neuroses that accompany it (don’t get fat). I gave up drinking after the Semester of Long Island Iced Teas and was a teetotaler until I began hanging out with refined people who enjoyed wine, cheese, and over-priced crackers flavored with things like hazelnut-figs and pistachios. From that point forward, I became a casual, quarterly type of imbiber.
Recently, however, I have found myself craving a more carefree and, perhaps, irresponsible existence. This means saying “yes” to more things I would ordinarily say “no” to, which is usually a recipe for an outstanding time, at least when you’re my age. The things I’ve been agreeing to the last four weeks would generally qualify someone older than thirty-five as a reckless waster, but for now my behavior seems age-appropriate. Needless to say, I am feeling comparatively toxic; waking up often enough with a fuzzy state of mind my friend cleverly termed, “Dirty Ice Water Brain.”
The most interesting part of this experiment in total debauchery has been the realization of what I have been missing for the last seven years, both good and bad. On the positive side, my responsible lifestyle had allowed me to be incredibly productive, clear-headed, focused, and healthy. I woke up early seven days a week, took hikes without wheezing, enjoyed trips to the farmer’s market, and otherwise lived like a seventy-three year old man who has suffered a recent myocardial infarction. It might be boring, but I never felt like shit. Like, ever.
What I have been missing is obvious: embarrassing late night booty calls, tequila-infused make out sessions, staying out until 4 a.m. even though you have to be up at 7 for work. In a word: FUN. I imagine I’m having the youthful equivalent of a man’s mid-life crisis: I am halfway through my twenties and what do I have to show for it? Good skin and pink organs. Laaammeeeeee.
Of course, no bad deed goes unpunished. All of the aforementioned elements for my new fun life have various degrees of punishment. The booty calls rendered me temporarily mortified and feeling (uncharacteristically) like a SAB (Stupid Ass Bitch). The make out session didn’t so much turn out badly but may have served to make a friendship a bit more awkward, though that verdict is still out. The three hours of sleep multiple days in a row, left me snorting Oscillococcinum and praying that God’s wrath would not befall me in the form of the flu. But even then, the ramifications of my actions had an element of fun all their own. The good and the bad, they all felt like living. I had officially began to participate in the known Universe of Man – a world filled with bad decisions, wretched hangovers, and stories that will provide you with infinite laughter once the shame dies down.
What I haven’t become adjusted to, and perhaps never will, is the feeling that my body wanted desperately to part ways with me, its negligent bastard of an owner. We’ve come under new management, I told myself, assuring my body that we’d make it through these fun times together, with a little luck and a lot of water, anything was possible. Still, I couldn’t ignore the fact that 80% of my days as a Fun Person have been spent in an incapacitated, fog-ridden haze known as a wretched hangover.
And so the partying got more ridiculous: walking down Canal with a broken heel and incorrect directions, routinely inhaling the second-hand smoke of more daring people, and other things that cannot be mentioned. I kept finding myself staring into the mirror the next morning, marveling at how bad I looked. Were those wrinkles there in August? I was starting to look my age.
My only saving grace was an upcoming trip to Los Angeles, where I knew my mother had every ridiculous tool that was required to do an at-home juice cleanse. I did my research, bought some vegetables, and have been juicing for the last three hours. Given the true and honest motivation that comes with actually looking twenty-six when you’d rather live in a perpetual state of twenty-three, I imagine I’ll be sticking to my almost forgotten healthy life style.
…at least until I land in New York on Friday.
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Ahhh, I remember those days fondly. Except the hangovers… those are more ‘fuzzily’.
Oh, and sorry but I’m totally persnickety about this kind of stuff: it’s ‘intestinal tract‘.
Keep the good stuff coming!
I appreciate the fix, Scott!