As you are reading this, I hope I survived December with its excesses. I am probably tired and sunburnt. My forehead is likely peeling off and I’m most definitely darker in complexion yet my teeth, somehow, are whiter. December wears one out both physically and financially. I’m probably writing this half comatose, my eyes rolled over, feeling my liver pulse. I’m probably feeling lethargic and tragic. December, in short, is evil.
January is the time to step back and take stock of our bodies. It’s the time we realise that we are human, and that we wear and tear. There are resolutions to ignore, yes, but mostly we need to get back on track; shed off some excess weight, hydrate our system and bring some colour back to our jaded eyes. We aren’t growing younger, are we?
I have added weight. That’s what my belt tells me. I am using a different hole now. I feel bloated from all the whisky and food bingeing that went on in December. Someone mentioned that a juice fast would help, which is this dreadful punishment where you “cleanse” your system with nothing but fresh vegetable juice. It tastes like dung, but I was told that it’s what my body needs to recover. I honestly thought the body had its own recovery mechanism that is never asleep. That all the booze we put in is processed by an efficient system that, well, never sleeps. Apparently our bodies are lazy and need a juice-fast. Anyway, I’m here paying for my sins. It’s a painful journey because when you get a man who’s 87kgs, loves his chapatis and whisky, and you tell him not to eat anything but salads and vegetable smoothies, you are basically killing him.
Which means I am angsty and impatient and moody and I walk around kicking everything in my way and banging doors and snapping at PR people and feeling like my world is swimming in a churning sea of green slime. But I’m feeling the results. In my head I imagine the whiskies being wrung from my body. I’m feeling like my old life of December is being expunged and replaced by a new life of January. But I’m still miserable as it is. I miss chapatis. I wake up dreaming of a double Chivas with one rock. I can’t watch someone eat a wrap. Or egg rice. I avoid people who eat rich food and secretly envy them, wishing I didn’t care about cleansing.
I can’t wait for February. I can’t wait to sit in a bar again and have one double. Just one. Just to remind my body that life is for the living.