Was Five Dozen Eggs

I was plodding along out the gym this morning.  Feeling better, always better, than when I'd walked, inside.  Digging around for my gloves.  They're in there beneath my shorts in the big broad pockets of this coat.  Unsolicited, Howlin’ Wolf has now summoned everyone to listen. “If you see my little red rooster, please drive him home.”  And I picture the bird and his crown, and I imagine his winged strut and I see Mssr. Wolf sitting near the barnyards and there are hounds that are howlin’ too. 

Later, at home, we have eggs.  I’d say we have about five dozen eggs in the bottom of the fridge.  Why?  Our Ayi has returned from Hubei.  She took a hard sleeper, I presume and among the many things she brought back to Beijing was five dozen eggs for us.  I would have thought traveling with one dozen eggs at Chinese New Year on the crowded trains would have been a great risk in its own right.  But five dozen or maybe more, all just sitting there in a big sack?  How could you assume they would all survive the journey?  And it appears, they have.  What a lovely, unexpected gesture.  

Free range, farm fresh, I wanted to try some of the eggs. I spied some left overs from the girls morning breakfast run and figured I’d put those in my salad, but my wife had the same idea and she beat me to it.  So I cracked three new ones and whipped them up and thought about just how they might taste any different.  One bite, two bites and I couldn’t taste anything distinct.  I wanted it to be a remarkable oval experience.  

A friend had shared a funny story about Dylan.  Apparently, Zimmy had wanted to do a slapstick comedy movie in the tradition of Jerry Lewis and he and the narrator Larry Charles, visit a producer or a pitch meeting.  The producer was welcoming, but clueless.  The moment he introduced himself, commented that he had original Woodstock tickets.  Dylan, replied, obviously, "I didn't play Woodstock."   And Dylan went and stared out the window for the duration of the meeting and at the end, when everyone agreed that funding such a show would be a great idea, Dylan inexplicably suggested he no longer wanted to do it.  It was funny.  Dylan's as quirky as you'd imagine  And it was sad.  Sad because I admired his power to walk from opportunity.  He doesn’t need to do it if it doesn’t feel right.

Thursday, 2/21/19

Left Such Things Behind

Day three of this prolonged fast.  Feeling good.  Was at the gym and on the one machine where I always test my limits, I found my limits were indeed, more limited, on two-and-a-half days without any sustenance.  But not dramatically so.  Just a bit. 

It’s three-thirty-five in the afternoon just now.  The end goal of “dinner time” is well within reach.  And I must say that there was little-to-no discomfort or cravings that I dreaded as I considered this challenge from afar.  I’m not more tired.  I’m not less productive.  Cruising along, banging work out.   It strikes me that I could “easily” do this monthly.  It’s a fine discipline but will it really positively impact my health or consume my unwanted paunch, which regular biking and weights has failed to do?  Will need to learn more. 

When I was thirteen, or so, I was off at a YMCA sleep-away-camp, Wawa_Segoia, where they taught us how to hike and canoe and you were out on the Appalachian Trail and paddling down the Housatonic River for a two-week stretch.  And you carried everything you needed and everything you planned to eat, on your back.  During that process of denial from the ease of a refrigerator, the ease of a contemporary home, we came across a house one time as we cut from one part of the trail to another and saw a television on inside and it looked so remarkably other, as I recall.  We had left such things behind.

And when you got to the top of a peak, and they pulled out some thing or other to eat it was magical. I’d normally disregard things like cucumber sticks, or an orange, but on top of the mountain, it tasted unlike any other orange or carrot or handful of peanuts I’d ever eaten.  The lack of choices, the lack of access had made the routine into a rare gift.  I’ve passed the kitchen a few times today and noted food and observed that I didn’t want to eat.  Shouldn’t I be ravenous?  I suspect when I finally allow myself to eat, (or I am certainly hoping that when I do) whatever it is will taste remarkable, at least for the first few bites. 

Wednesday, 2/20/19

I Kept Expecting It

I was out at a lunch the other day and begged off eating anything.  I was fasting, and hadn't planned to eat till dinner time.  One person is someone I’ve talked about this with in detail.  The other woman had never heard of such-a-thing and, so I took some time to explain what I knew about the logic behind the routine.  My other chum is quite knowledgeable on the topic.  And he mentioned that he has also done a three-day fast as well as a five-day fast with protein shakes.  He did a good job of explaining all this to our other guest.  This routine stimulates a state of “ketosis”, where in the body begins to eat up its own surplus fat deposits and rejuvenate, old, tired white blood cells that fight off disease. 

He has mentioned all this before, and again he suggested that the second day of the three-day fast was not easy.  But by the third day, he had lots of clarity and felt great.  I tried to imagine what that would be like.  The first time I fasted for a whole day, which is chronicled in here from last August, it was excruciating, and I vexed all afternoon until dinner time.  But the next time I tried it was easier.  And now I don’t really even think twice about going twenty-four hours without food.  It’s not the least bit taxing, as long as you’ve got some water and black coffee. 

His depiction stuck with me and I wondered if I could manage a three-day fast.  This idea that the second day would suck, was a bit frightful, if I'm candid.  It must profoundly suck, right?  You wake up after a day without food, how could you think about anything else?  You probably have a headache and spend the day grumpy, bitter, avoiding the kitchen, counting the hours to . . . what?  The end of your second day, with another day to go.  Only then would you have the mystic clarity on the “other-side,” with mere hours remaining. 

I didn’t eat through the evening, woke up and to my pleasant surprise, felt fine.  I considered bailing on my morning gym routine, but instead I biked over, did what I’d normally do and returned without anything feeling different.  Midday I was at meeting over on the west side of town.  They filled the table with pizza and soft drinks.  Tempted?  You betcha.  But I just told them the truth.  The host said, “Oh yeah?  Cool.  My friend did thirty-days.”  "Did he?"  That put me in my place. 

I kept expecting it would get miserable, but instead I had a bit of that clarity my friend had held out for on the third day, straight away on the second.  Interesting how easy this was.  Perhaps this process can be ritualized.

Tuesday 2/19/19