Quitters
fail, winners fail to quit. The hunger for success ain’t quenched with the bitter
fruit of failure. It is not failure that makes the man, but what the man makes
of failure. Living safe is merely the false walls erected to protect from
failure. See yonder mountain? I shall conquer! Yadda, yadda, yadda. Blah, blah,
blah. Platitude generator primed. Insert the obligatory flower sprouting out of
a dry lake bed. FREEDOM!!! Then the
cold hand of reality smacks the sense back into me. I nearly crashed and burned
attempting a 10-day cleanse while still training. Failure gave me no options. Unfortunately, HIPA laws prohibit full
disclosure of my health information. What I can share is the experience of
failing to complete the 10-day cleanse… two hours short of the halfway mark.
Have you
ever seen the poor marathoner who lost all control of bodily form and function feet
from the finish line? Poop stained zombie legs, gravity playing tricks on them,
and the lights on upstairs while no body is home. The crowd anguishing. Grimacing
at every step. Yet, the nonsexual voyeurism is must see -- even capturing the
attention of the most squish of onlookers in the audience. Fortunately, that
wasn’t me. I just wanted you to soak up that mental picture of poop stained legs.
No, I could walk, and did not lose bowel control. The old #2 was taken care of
with the morning saltwater cleanse. As
your attorney, I advise you to be no more than ten paces from a well-stocked
restroom for the next hour.
What I did
experience rattled the cage. Cognitive meltdown manifested in difficulty to
transfer rudimentary thought from my brain to my mouth. And the meltdown was
quick. While collaborating on a presentation my assistant poked fun at me for
saying funny things. I usually own funny with exuberance. Except this time, I
was struggling to stay focused on simply staying focused. The words coming out
of my mouth were not the ones intended, which set off alarm bells. Over the years
of endurance training I have occasionally dragged my body into the low blood
sugar stages. Not a healthy space to reside in for long, and one to quickly
evacuate. I stashed a jar of peanut butter in my desk for this very situation.
Three large scoops, and the cleanse was no more. Two hours short of completing the
fifth day. The end was only the beginning of the real excitement. A panic
attack.
Retracing
the final hours of the cleanse has brought me to the conclusion that my body
begun to go into caloric shock; and my brain, depleted of nutrition because the
Master Cleanse drink was no match against five hard swim work outs, sent the
brain into survival mode. Within minutes, the tunnel began to close. I struggled
to break a $5 bill for the vending machine. I
need granola bars, Sprite, and to
calm the freak down! We all know there is no shame in having a medical
emergency at work. But all hell would break loose if first responders were
needed as a result of an ill-fated stunt. The lizard escaped and took the
frontal cortex hostage.
After two
hours of scarfing down vending machine treats, and some not so silent prayers
to the Maker, I exited the panic highway. There is no doubt in my mind the peanut
butter saved the day. This here bravado boy was heading down a steep slope toward
zombie limbs and fecal leg-warmers if I had not quickly ate those three scoops
of peanut butter. So, the next time I cleanse it will be cut to four days max… no
work outs… and emergency peanut butter on my person at all times.
