Coming up in but a mere couple of hours is the fast of the year for all those alike in the Jewish faith. Those that mock at their own kind and those that worship their own kind; those that eat pig with a nice slice of all-American cheese, and those that wait six hour intervals between the consumption of meat and dairy. It is the day of the year, where majority of the observant and non-observant alike tremble in fear at this upcoming fast of Yom Kippur (also known as The Day of Atonement).
Just a wee bit of unrelated-yet-related knowledge: Kippur is a type of herring. And Jews love their herring. Yum kippur!
Anyway, as much as I couldn’t be more ready for this day of immense introspection laden with thoughts of my actions, beings, and capabilities, I am even more excited for the 24-hour detox cleanse my body is about to embark on. Ah, my diet. How have I been on it? Why have I been so quiet, all my faithful covert followers may want to know?
Well in short: I have been doing awful. I have been 108% loads of awful. Why the random 8? That’s how my body figure feels more so than looks. The reason for my downfall is crystal clear: my downfall begins and ends when I go back South for the holidays. In case you couldn’t realize, I am back in Florida. The land of imitation Ho-ho’s, two types of Ben and Jerries ice cream, and lasagna for dinner. Interesting to note how I don’t come from an obese background at all, despite our household staples. But the weight is creeping up on me faster than you could say “Lord, forgive my gluttonous ways.” I thought a little day of atonement humor would be apropos.
As I came into the kitchen I had made the very clear statement that I was hungry. No tantrums were thrown, just some tomatoes. Just kidding, but I did look up and down the pantry like a little mouse in search of cheese. Until Jackie pipes in (yes, she’s back): “Have some baked beans with me.”
“I don’t really like baked beans” I stated with a mildly acrid face.
“Well, what kind of beans do you like?”
“I don’t know…beans, I guess.” I shrugged.
“hehe…jellybeans?” She laughed.
The walking and breathing piece of jello had a point. Being back in Miami is bringing back my incessant cravings I had gotten rid of in NY. With that, I decided to book my flight back a week earlier and stay by my Aunt and Uncle’s house. Why am I running away to them? He may be a court reporter and she an incredible housewife and head of chapter organizations, but in their past life, they ran a boot camp that showed no mercy. If the apple falls from my parent’s trees, it gets picked up and baked by my Aunt and Uncle. Literally and figuratively. I couldn’t be more ready to reconvene with my healthy eating lifestyle.
But I divert, the upcoming fast is near. It may be the most craved spiritual time of year for some, but no-doubt it’s a dreadful food deprivation day for most. But not for me. Within the next 24 hours my cycle starts over and I will be back on target. My introspective thoughts and life goals back on check…and if this 24 hour fasting period leads me to gaining that silver, slender, and sleek body (mirroring the characteristics of the mentioned herring) I am working toward, well then, Yum Kippur indeed.
What screams louder than a lamb knowingly going to the slaughter? Me on the holidays eating that lamb—and much more. A bit gruesome, but the holiday cooking makes me want to jump right out of my skin. Only the holiday cooking gives me a ton more extra skin to jump out of. These past few days, I will publicly admit, I have been bad. Real bad. Even though I gave up the white flour enriched enemy of a carb, I still gave way (weigh) to the apple strudel. Is it just a Jewish thing that on the holidays you have two souls to feed? Or something like that. Well, the Nana of the household whipped me good over dinner—and publicly at that—but I will spare details and further self humiliation.
I am not THAT much of a masochist.
One can contact for the full story. Anyway, my goal date (February 11th) is around the bend and I must get to my goal weight. So this coming week of more Jewish festivities: What screams louder than a lamb knowingly going to the slaughter? Not me.