Hip (and Sanity) Check

At about seven thirty yesterday morning I announced, with my trainer, my daughter, and a handful of weekend warriors at the gym as my witnesses, that I was going to do a twenty-eight day cleanse. Well, at least for seven days. I was trying to be realistic. Still, my audience appeared skeptical.

I guess I wasn't technically lying even though two hours later I was noshing on leftover Thai food in the car on my way downtown for lunch. I'm pretty sure Thai food (much less two meals before lunch) is not part of the regimen, but I can still make good on my promise. I said seven days but I never said which ones. Or even whether they would be consecutive.

Nobody would expect me -- or anyone else for that matter -- to start anything as rash as a cleanse on a Sunday, so I won't feel too guilty about the non-whole-grain bagel I am about to eat for breakfast. Notwithstanding the whole Creation story, which is grandfathered in as an exception for some, Sunday just cannot be Day One. It can, however, be a perfect day for administrative matters, the kinds of things that will psych me up for the challenge ahead. Which probably explains why yesterday, determined to recapture the resolve to get healthy that had lasted all of two hours earlier in the day -- and that long, mind you, only because I was busy working out and showering and hiding messes in closets for an upcoming house showing -- I decided to sign up for a 5K race in the morning. My daughters pleaded with me not to do it. They claim to be concerned about the inevitable crippling hip pain; I'm guessing they just don't want to hear me whining about it. Me? Whine?

Who knows? Maybe I signed up to spite them. But Sunday morning has arrived and I am pretty sure they're over it, while I am sitting here wondering what the heck I was thinking. Unlike the cleanse, though, I can't fudge this one. I can't really decide to do just a quarter of the 5K (too humiliating) and I can't decide to do it on a different day. More compelling still, the race is sponsored by The Biggest Loser. I can't quit. They'll yell at me. They'll make me cry. For all I know they'll make me dress up in spandex and weigh me on national television. There is no turning back. I just need to gulp down a healthy handful of Advil with my coffee loaded with cream, savor my non-whole-grain bagel slathered in butter, and suck it up.

When I picked up my race packet yesterday, I got myself a refrigerator magnet that says something like the person who starts the race isn't the same person as the one who finishes. (I'd go get it from my car to give the exact quote, but I'm conserving energy.) A different person? No shit! Right now, I am filled with toxins and about to stuff a bagel down my throat, but I am feeling pretty spry. In a few hours, I will -- as my daughters have predicted -- feel like a cripple. And, to add to my misery, I will know there is very little standing between me and the seven day cleanse I have vowed to complete except a really big post-race brunch.

And, of course, the inevitable decision to start on some other, distant Monday. There is always that.