Henceforth the onerous and burdensome task of detox.Pilates has been upped to twice a week, and my fridge is filled with leafy detritus that rabbits dig to nibble on as celebratory party snacks.
Oh , and water. I've been in workplaces where water is the El Grande Entusiasmo Embarassante.
Where women lug around 2 litre bottles of Valpre and chug gallons of the stuff like it's normal.
Where water is their cling on. Their tag along to every meeting; their homie at every lunch break. Where water bottles are clutched more than a mouse. It was an all women office, and it was a little terrifying.
(That and the tampon talk, of course.)
These women really should've placed portable latrines next to their desks for incessant bladder relieving. They say smokers are less productive.
Fuck that. Obsessive wee takers are less productive. I should collate stats and present it at the company's quarterly results indaba:
“She who drinks Valpre water during working hours spends approximately 4.5 hours on the can! Just pissing away! That's not pee, that's solid working time literally being bypassed away.”
[Pointing to flip chart displaying an eloquently sketched ureter, using Italian-like hand motions to accentuate my conclusive research.]
“That ureter isn't passing fluid; it's passing the BUCK.”
[Pragmatic pause.]
“Ladies and gentlemen, there goes the company revenue. Ad verbatim.
Give us normal water drinkers an extra lunch break. Or, like a bonus or something.”
Anyway. Where was I. Ah yes, water. So I'm drinking it like these people are. I have my standard 1.5 litres a day, and even then the peeing becomes a drag. I've upped it to two litres, and frankly, the poen is taking strain.
I ate salad for dinner, and I ate it for lunch. And tomorrow I shall imbibe great vast quantities of leafy produce, because...well, I don't know really. I just should.
I feel the pressure. 'Bitch please, I'm from Sandton'-pressure.
After a whoringly indulgent week in Greece where 2:00am was an early bedtime, this is what people should do.
By the time my Friday birthday bash rolls around, I should be good for a few mojitos.
I would've done enough water closet duty. And perhaps morphed into a giant rocket leaf.
And on that – because I've been meaning to bitch about it for a while - rocket is so unbelievably overrated. Just because Jamie Oliver made it the 'thing' to have in a salad, everyone just jumped onto the fucking rocket wagon claiming they 'grow it in their gardens,' or the tediously overheard, 'I bought the Woolies rocket, it's just so scrumptious and fresh.'
Rocket doesn't taste fragrant like basil or oregano. It tastes rather like water. Bitter water that's perhaps been chilling somewhere stagnant.
Rocket is pants.
Nuff bitching. More water drinking and salad eating and pilates doing and tan upkeep.
PS: Great news. The cankles weren't permanent. Thank fuck for that.
