The Fast was not part of any religious experience, ‘Tis the season, but the execution of a containment exercise. We order cocktails before dinner. Rachel was giddy in her counter: “the Dimwit thinks that skipping lunch is a Fast.” There’s no point in arguing with the closed-minded so I sit quietly sipping my tap water watching the mocking escalate, with Mother and Son now piling on. Who’s she calling a Dimwit? Who raised this thing?
Yet, I knew. I just knew, a bad outcome was coming. The late night dinner was preceded by a full day in the Sun and an empty stomach following the end of my Fast. My Fast.
I open with warm bread rolls (and who’s counting after three) – all carefully lathered with cheesy butter and baptized in virgin olive oil squeezed from some tree on an arid hill in Greece. This was followed with a Caesar salad, fresh crispy greens, a light-just-right Caesar dressing and razor thin strips of Parmesan cheese cultured from some cow grazing on a hillside in Southern Italy. The knife and fork then worked the entrée, a heaping portion of three-layered eggplant lasagna topped with cheese, broiled to a golden crisp.
This was chased down with three intermittent spoonfuls of Rachel’s garlic mashed potatoes, with the buttery succulence coating my tongue and lips. In my fourth attempt, the sharing was shut down: “Dad, ENOUGH!” – batting my spoon back and moving her dish beyond my reach.
All of this was finished with three large dollops of raspberry, strawberry and lime sorbet – and the remaining chocolate molten cake (and vanilla ice cream) abandoned on Rachel’s plate.
The Chef approached the table during coffee: “Was everything ok?” A vision flashed – two Russian leaders locking lips. OK? Step back and take a bow Friend. Give us some room to crank up the standing ovation.
The euphoria was a flash.
“Is it warm in here?” I excused myself from the table. “Dad, you don’t look good.”
I collapsed into bed at 11 pm, and tossed until 4am with the arrival of stomach cramps. I should have taken the necessary precautions with the food intake post-Fasting. Now that could qualify for dimwit status.
I lace up my running shoes, pull on my shirt and strap on the Garmin. I grab my music player and step outside. I set my GPS watch, cinch down the band and step out the door. I’m going to push through this.
My stomach rumbles, cramps linger. Just get started.
I’m a quarter mile out. I cut the pace. Sweat beads on my forehead. Cramps are biting. I’m overheating.
I reach a hill. I need to pick up the pace, if I go any slower, I’d fall backward. I strain to climb and burp a thin stream of cheesy vomit that coats my mouth, the acidity burning my throat. Choking, I spit it out. My eyes water. Half of the spittle dribbles down my shirt and shorts, red pigments adding a pretty red hue. Red fruit chunks? Ah, yes. I finished half of Susan’s Spumoni ice cream as well.
The thick schmutz snails down my shirt. I can’t touch it – still scarred from childhood memories of subzero temperatures, numb fingertips and hands trembling trying to affix the jumper cables to the right poles: the red clamp to the “+” sign, the black to the “–” sign, sparks flying on contact. “Don’t touch the battery acid!”
And, I forgot my water bottle. Damn it. Nasty sh*t.
I stop, and turn around. I try to induce saliva to self-clean the mess in my mouth. I’m 75% successful, a thin film lingers.
The cramps sharpen. They move downward. I’m a 1/4 mile away from facilities. No. No. No. No. No.
I sit down on the curb, and slow my breathing. In out. In out. In out. I start assessing contingency plans including an evaluation of the trees and shrubs. The evacuation and related services don’t look promising.
I lean left, gently, looking to pinch the channels. This fails and appears to be opening the aqueducts. No. No. No. No. I pause at center and then lean, gently right. Hold it. Right there. Please.
I get back.
Susan wakes. “Good morning. Where were you?”
I pause for a moment to contemplate a response. There’s no need to make this bigger than it was.
“I went for a run.”
I step in the shower, and into the steam. I move under the stream. The hot water sparks an electrical charge on contact with my a** and legs. I reach back to find deep abrasions from the pebbles in the curb.
Dimwit, you’re done with this Fasting sh*t.
Notes:
- Photo: j’aime juste la photo
- Related Posts: Running Series
Live & Learn 
Oh boy! I feel for you DK! Did you also have a light shining from your ass as well as emitting pink smoke? I’m pretty sure there is a name for this. It’s uncommon. As you are 😀
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LAUGHING!
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Just saw the phot on a large screen. My apologies to the watch!
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Still laughing!
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Lololololol!!!!!! I know I can’t top this one.
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Laughing. I’m sure you can’t. Be grateful that you have more discipline.
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I was going to ask you why you were posting blog comments at 3 in the morning, but now I know. I also now know why the title of your web site is Live and Learn 🙂
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As I told Michael earlier, there is strong consideration to changing blog title to Live and Never Learn. 🙂
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Oh my. 🙂
Diana xo
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LOLOL! Very good.
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Some memories you just don’t want to bring back. Not so funny then but now….yes
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oh! i love the photo goes with this story, pretty much sums it up .)
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Laughing. So agree with that Beth
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Um…dimwit? Feel better, and in case you’re wondering, don’t do this again. And definitely wash your shirt.
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Laughing. I think the shirt needs to be burned.
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Even better
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definitely not on my list of things to do…no fasting, no celebratory buttery feast and not ever, a 4am ‘morning run.’ Thank you for sharing your details David. At least the rest of us now know what to avoid! 🙂 I am NOT laughing. Its just a slight smile.
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Cheshire Cat grin. I get it Debi! 🙂
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Break-fast. It’s a thing. Toast and soft boiled eggs might have worked better. Just saying.
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Laughing. Yes, get more in the tank! Thanks Van
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So, Dr Kanigan. Please complete this sentence: When will you ever………….?
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Blog title changing to: LIVE AND NEVER LEARN!
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Ok. It must be said. Fasting wasn’t the problem.
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Laughing. You think so?
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Bro that was another classic!! But something tells me this pain will be short lived in your memory and the gravitational pull of all food delicacies are not going to stop you from gorging again sometime soon!!
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Bro, now THAT is Truth!
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sounds like a mega fast!
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Ha! You sound like my daughter. Must be a millennial thing! 🙂
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More X than millenial, but thank you
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X is good!
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Really good one David! Was gonna say, Live and Learn, but I am late to the game as usual, and several have beat me to it.
Then, after thinking about it, it occurred to me that live and learn is the ONLY antidote to the alternative of, Dying with Stupidity. The point being, we need you David!
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Laughing. Good one! Thanks Debra.
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Oh David. I confess I’m laughing. Brilliant writing, as usual! But I’m little worried about your learning curve to be honest. Please remember, for the future, that repetition is not always the mother of learning.
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Learning curve implies learning at some point on the curve. It seems to be a perpetual falling… 🙂 Thanks for the kind words Helen.
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Wasn’t online much yesterday, so just now enjoying this romp through your GI tract. After reading this, ahem, incendiary bit of writing, I’m going to hold off on sending the recipe for the latest chocolate-caramel delight I’ve discovered. Someone has to use a little good sense…. 😉 And I’m with Sandy Sue–it wasn’t the fasting, pal…
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Hold the recipes. PLEASE!
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P.S. Perhaps I should return the Fitbit I got ya for Christmas? 😉
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Or get me a larger one!
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GI tract, eyesight, what’s next, hearing?!….
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It’s all going, fast!
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About every 4 months I get a hankerin’ for some fried chicken livers. And two times a year, I get away with it. But the third time, 1 out of 3, is usually enough to make me swear off chicken livers. Never again I say, but I don’t mean it. Eventually I will be back.
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Smiling. I know that. I’ve repeat the same pattern with many creamy and spicy foods.
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