ok…DAY 4 is done. I was SO discouraged yesterday (end of day 3 because I was so nauseous last night that I had to skip the last shake. I hated that.) I thought of throwing in the towel. But I asked myself this morning. Are you nauseous now? Keep plugging…everyone says first week is hardest…and today…
I turned a corner. I am still GAGGING when taking the drinks (who doesn’t)…but only a brief period of mild nausea lasting just a few minutes. And to think I almost threw in the towel.
So tonight I am almost as up as I was down last night. I didn’t miss a beat today (except for a slightly abbreviated NEPA of 35 mins.)
I have a good friend/fitness buff (he keyed me in on this diet) who is recommending ginger extract if the nausea comes back at all.
Going on vacation this weekend from Sat to Sat…and yet…I am confident I will succeed…it’ll probably seem easy after this week as long as the nausea stays away. And there will be plenty of TIME to do it.
I am already fantasizing about my Saturday HSM…4-6 oz lean steak or chicken…steamed mixed veggies in some kind of yummy sauce…and a small ceasar salad. The countdown begins.
I will end with one of my favorite poems…To Be of Use by Marge Piercy…I have a feeling a lot of you are like the “people she loves best” described here. Enjoy.
To Be of Use
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real