Lost + Found
I got through 21 days of Whole30 before succumbing to a glass of Pinot Noir last Saturday. I meant to complete the program—which I was also calling Sober October—but found another glass of wine in my hand on Monday night, out to dinner with family, and yet another while out to dinner with colleagues on Tuesday night. And so on. I expressed some self-serving (not to mention wine-serving) thoughts about the ‘magical thinking’ around needing to complete 30 days. And how much I loved Whole30, even while quitting it.
Here’s what I lost: a few pounds, maybe three, but more significantly a narrowness around my waist. I have a pair of pants, purchased this time last year, that had begun to make me feel bad and sad—tight around the waist which caused my stomach to look wide and round.
Here’s what I gained:
- My attachment to wine in the evenings, as a means of changing my moods. Before Whole30, I felt deprived if I couldn’t pour a glass after work; now I feel slightly repelled by the thought of the wine-induced shift in brain chemistry.
- My hunger for grains—pizza, pasta, sandwiches, popcorn. I craved those kinds of carbs. But now I don’t.
- A super-productive run of weeks—a renewed interest in getting things done, as compared to the dulled and restless mood I felt before the program
Here’s what I’m thinking:
- Continue with moderate drinking. No rules come to mind, but I’m thinking about them, at the very least.
- Continue with the zero-to-minimal grains. For instance, in the airport very early this morning, I was thrilled to find RxBars, which satisfy so completely.
- Continue with the focus on protein—was that the key to my improved energy?
- Continue to avoid entirely sweets and salty snacks, which I’d protest are not a weakness of mine, until I consider the late afternoon candy, pretzels, popcorn and whatever else is being dispensed at the office.
Here’s what I’m still missed: a creative urge, the inspiration to write, this post notwithstanding. I’m writing it but in a workaday way. Same applies for reading. I can’t find the intellectual curiosity to take up ambitious novels, favoring pulpy women’s literature (The girl/woman in the window/on the train/in Cabin 10 and in all sorts of other perilous situations) and murder mysteries. And somehow connected to this is my aversion to yoga. The task of emptying my mind seems impossible; worse, it doesn’t appeal to me. At all. Where have you gone, mind of mine? And when will you return?
