The Whole 30 Challenge. Herewego.
Yep, I’m about to be the annoying girl. Wait for the next post (coming soon) if this is too much for you. At least I know I’m annoying. I think it’s also important for me to post about real life. Life in Doha is still life.
There was a time when I was a hefty 212 pounds. I try to forget that, but it’s my truth and I need to remember it, soak it up, really feel it - so that I never live it again! Let’s be honest, when you get to the point where you can no longer shop at the Gap, it’s time for a change. And so, way back in 2006, I decided it was time. I was done having kids, I had the added benefit of burning bonus calories by simply feeding my own infant, and Weight Watchers was having a joining sale. The stars had aligned and I buckled up for a wild ride down a bumpy road of embarrassing public celebrations, tire popping pitfalls, and infuriating plateaus. Don’t worry, I have no intention of having you endure the scenic route of what that all looked like. Let’s just fast forward to today, where I now have a much healthier understanding of the role food plays in my life, how exercise has become a non-negotiable, and how Doha and it’s endless doughy temptations had to have a head on collision with a massive cement wall. Hello Whole 30. Goodbye Doha Dozen.
Those of you who were unfortunate enough to know me when I attempted the 21 day sugar cleanse that later became known as the 21 day sanity cleanse, go ahead and thank Allah that I live in the Middle East while I embark on these dietary experiments.
I’ll paraphrase, mostly because I don’t have the book in front of me, but the introduction to the Whole 30 starts off by sort of making fun of people like me who think the world might end if I can’t find a way to put legal heroin in the form of sugar into my body. They write about how this program isn’t really hard, it’s not difficult to drink your coffee black, to pass on the plate of donuts, or to resist the temptation of an ice cold Corona with a wedge of lime alongside your cheese-less, tortilla-less, chicken tortilla soup. Okay, I added that last one. And the following image was clearly taken pre Whole 30.
Battling Cancer is hard. Losing someone you love is hard. Eating clean? Not hard. With an intro like that, how could I say no? Well, with an intro like that and a friend like Corinne who was in it to win it with me? We may have had a weight loss competition going that didn’t end well for either of us. It did end with a shared box of donuts, though. Also, we’re still friends and even though neither one of us made it to our elusive goal weight, we’re still winners.
First things first, what does Whole 30 look like? Well, as much as I hate (yes, truly loathe) the word paleo, it kind of looks like the paleo lifestyle. On steroids. You see, eating based on the Whole 30 approach means you cut anything worth living for out of your diet. No sugar, no form of sugar (that means no honey, no syrup, none of that sugary stuff…even what is considered the “good” sugary stuff. Even if it’s 100% pure, straight from the beehive, dug out with your own little caveman hands). None of it. It also means limited fruit consumption (gasp), because, well…the whole point is to break the sugar addiction and while the naturally occurring sugar in a syrupy sweet mango is preferable to a putting a heap of processed brown sugar in your mouth (yes, I’ve done that), it’s still sugar. It’s still sweet. It leaves your mindless little taste buds longing for more. Back to the plan: no refined carbs, no alcohol (gah, wine is natural!), and no dairy. Great. What am I supposed to eat?
What you can eat is meat. But not hotdogs or bacon or pepperoni. None of the best meats. I guess now is the time I get down on my knees and express my thanks for living in a country that bans all pork products?
Oh, what else? You can eat vegetables, delicious fruits, nuts (but not peanuts, because those are legumes), eggs, and anything you can concoct using those ingredients. Think salsa, sunflower butter, ummm… that’s all I can come up with right now. I did discover manna from the Gods over here in the form of coconut. Coconut milk became an instant go-to, as did coconut oil, and coconut cream, oh, and coconut butter. Watch, in ten years scientists will discover that coconut is carcinogenic. Until then, I will continue to indulge. If you’ve never had a latte made with coconut milk, it’s high time you try it. If anyone can find a way out of this binding 30-day lifestyle, it’s this girl. And yes, Corinne and I did boldly take a can of coconut milk right into a Starbucks and sweetly ask them to please jab a hole in it and whip us up a couple of coconut lattes. Oddly enough it wasn’t well received at every coffee shop we went to and the ritual of keeping a can of coconut milk (rather than a bottle of wine) in our handbags became just weird.
Let me share the general guidelines, and these are very general, because this blog post is not to inform or persuade. I’m simply here to entertain you…er, myself. What? Whose teaching about ‘author’s purpose’ in 3rd grade reading this week? Was it that obvious? Yes, yes, the guidelines. They go a little something like this: with each meal you are supposed to have a palm-sized portion of protein. Think meat, nuts, etc. Your fat source should be about the same size as your thumb, and the rest of your plate should be full of vegetables with about 1-3 small servings of fruit smattered here and there in your day. That’s it. Easy. Right?
Day four of the Whole 30 found me panicking in the kitchen the night before a two-hour spin-a-thon I had signed up for. I didn’t want to back out. I couldn’t be a Whole 30 drop out so soon in the game, but being trained with the mindset of carb loading before intensive physical demand had me in a tizzy. A little pacing and a google search (duh) later I realized I could still get the carbs I needed to carry me through with a sweet potato. Hooray for the sweet potato. I topped that pup with a little coconut milk, some ground walnuts, and a sprinkle of cinnamon for a breakfasty delight that easily took me through that two-hour workout. Challenge one: met and completed.
Don’t let me fool you. There were plenty of temptations, moments of panic, outright mental meltdowns, and even a text from my boss who wrote something along the lines of “please, for the sake of your students, eat a slice of pizza!” There was even one epic fail where I ingested 4 cupcakes, 3 candy bars, and 2 glasses of wine…yes, in one night. Don’t judge. It was the fateful night I found out the laptop I had purchased in Doha, a Mac, had a faulty hard drive and had crashed. Gone? Everything. All of my photos. All of my word documents. All of my Power Point presentations. All of my tax documents. All of my music. Recovered? None of it. I never thought I’d say these words, but thanks to that cursed iCloud, the photos I had taken on my iphone remained, so that’s something. I guess. Needless to say, I learned something about myself. When presented with an amount of stress that fizzles the wires in my brain, I will take a one-way trip to the town of Sugarville, and plummet, face first, into the first sugary substance I can get my greedy little hands on. It was a great learning experience. I learned that I simply can’t allow stress in my space. Stress and sugar are no longer welcome here. I’ll let you know how that goes.
The moral of the story is that I did it. Mostly. And I actually grew to like it. Day 3 found me mopey and tired because all I really wanted with my steak and veggies was a buttery baked potato. Wah. Poor me. On day 9 I nearly dove under a table to recover an Oreo that had fallen out of the filthy hands of a wide-eyed toddler. Oh, I wasn’t going to recover it for him. I wanted to eat that Oreo. By day 20 it was in the bag. I had this thing. By day 29 ½, as we drove by Dairy Queen and ordered the Blizzards that we’d promised to our three sweet children, I caved once again (not cave-man style, because I would have clearly said no, had I simply channeled my inner Neanderthal) and ordered the Butterfinger Blizzard. And it was divine. Also I felt ill for a good two hours after. Which, oddly enough, isn't enough to keep me from having another one some day.
I liked putting food into my mouth that actually had a job to do. The food I was eating wasn’t just to fill my stomach; it was to nourish my muscles, my brain, and my body. And that felt kind of cool. I loved watching my kids fight (literally yelling fighting) over red bell peppers at the dinner table. Not only was I not eating useless food, my family wasn’t. We were eating useful food. They didn’t embark on the whole goodness of the process with me, but dinner was pretty much a clean meal. We explored the miracle of cauliflower. It’s like a cloaking food. Who knew it could be a vegetable for dipping into spicy sunbutter sauce, masquerade as rice, and even show up to dinner as a mashed potato double? Brilliant.
A friend of mine who was battling cancer once said, “everything you eat, it either feeds the beast or it fights it.” I think we all have a beast to fight or feed within us, whether that’s cancer, fat, age, or something else. We all can choose to either feed the beast or fight it. For the most part, this 30 day experiment taught me to fight. Shocking, coming from me…I’m sure. Ha!
I think it’s important to note that I’m typing this with buttery fingers and dried cookie dough on my forearm (literally). I just felt like it was important to clarify for those of you who will have the pleasure of my presence this summer. I will still indulge in s’mores, the occasional (who are we kidding) Ruby Ale, and a savory grilled hotdog (or two) tucked nicely into a starchy white bread poison bun. But what I really want to do is eat as clean as I can, not for 30 days, but for however many I get to have on this planet. Who knows, maybe this choice will add one or two to that equation. Don’t be annoyed if I turn down your fresh baked pie and don’t judge me if I gobble it down like I haven’t eaten in three days. I’m just here, doing my best to be the best version of me I can. Some days I’m winning. Some days I’m not.
