47 at Forty-seven – The Mid-Life Crisis Diet Project Part 7

47 at Forty-seven – The Mid-Life Crisis Diet Project
Part 7: Weeks Seven and Eight


What Was I? High?
Sorry. I know I haven’t blogged in a while. Like the butcher who backed into his meat-grinder, I got a little behind in my work. (rimshot). Or maybe I just needed to re-boot some brain cells. As I announced in the last installment, on this journey to lose 47 pounds, I gave myself a little reward milestone along the way. No booze – no marijuana is part of the promise of this diet, but if I was down over 20 pounds by April 20th, (4-20, the stoner holiday), I would allow myself a day off. A day-long smoke-out. A High Holiday. So, on Monday morning, 4-20 I got on the scale…

Week Seven weigh-in (drum roll)…
221 lbs. (Down 24 lbs. 23 to go)

Ha! That’s pretty damn good. Over half-way to my goal. Bring me my bong.

I spent the morning shopping for snacks. Since I was getting ready for a high day (and so were my guests), I bought out the store. I had already asked a few of my fellow celebrants if they had a favored munchie. This was a smart move, as it steered me to a few things I wouldn’t have necessarily purchased. Jen – fruit roll-ups. Susan – watermelon. I also got fresh strawberries and pineapple. Tortilla chips, Fritos, cheese, crackers, twizzlers, kosher salami, my poor-man’s trail mix (lightly salted roasted peanuts, semi-sweet chocolate chips, golden raisins)…a bunch more I’m forgetting, oh and of course, Teddy Grahams. I also had two boxes of Matzah left from Passover, (with butter - don’t laugh, it was gone in minutes).

12:30PM I loaded the Brandy Bong - that’s where the liquid is ½ water, ½ brandy for a sweeter draw. I took a huge toke and turned on Cheech and Chong’s “Up in Smoke”. I couldn’t think of a better choice to start the day. Within minutes I was giggling and feeling really high. Then higher. Then higher still. Damn, this was really strong stuff. Was it just that I hadn’t smoked in weeks? No, this was heavy duty bud. Gulp.

About an hour later the first guest came, and like the good host my momma raised, I didn’t let him smoke alone. Within minutes he was insanely high and could barely communicate. Fine with zombie me. And so it went for the next few hours. I would get stupidly baked, then just be coming back into my body, when someone new would stop in. Let me join you. Puff…stupor…forage…regulate…lather…rinse…repeat. Late afternoon (close to 4:20PM) quite a few folks stopped in close together. I kid you not; the back room had a thick cloud of smoke hanging low and obscuring the ceiling. You didn’t need a pipe; you could walk in and take a drag off the room. No lie. I had to walk outside for air. This is smoggy, Southern California in the middle of a heat wave, and it was so much more comfortable outside. “What am I doing? I’m not a 20 year-old frat boy.” I’m thinking that now. At the time I was thinking, “Um, wait. What?”

The way too much food I had purchased was all but gone by 5:30PM. I ordered Pizzas. Thanks for walking with me to pick them up, whomever you were. So many amazing friends attended, or so I hear. A dear old improv friend I haven’t seen in at least a decade came by. He told me about his life, and I told him, “Um, wait. What?” The party was epic. 12 hours, 25 guests, 8PM Lebowski viewing. Nirvana.

Looking back on it though, I’m of two minds. Part of me feels like it was fabulous, harmless, debauchery. Hooray for us. I’d love to do it again next year (though, perhaps with some milder stuff). The other part of me worries that this is just arrested development, and that I should grow up already. Screw it. I’m listening to the first guy.

The High Price
The next day I felt like crap – the next two, actually. In my best Danny Glover, “I’m getting too old for this stuff”. And…when I got on the scale the next morning, it was 4 pounds up. Are you kidding me? 4 pounds! I hadn’t intended to full-on binge, but I guess I did anyway. Now I’m looking forward to a week of hard dieting, just so I don’t backslide. Dumbbass.

But here is the hardest thing I had to contend with the day after. There was still quite a bit of weed in the house. I took the bulk over to a friend. But there was still a freshly packed pipe, and mostly packed bong – just sitting there – calling me. “Steve. Yoo hoo.” I had opened the door a crack. There was a little hole in the dike. All day long, and especially in the evening, I had angel and devil shoulders. The devil would say, “Go on, just finish off what’s already been packed. How is one more night gonna kill you?” The angel said, “No, you made deal. You gave yourself one day. That one day is over. A deal is a deal. You need to be true to your word.” And…for some unknown reason these two little guys looked and sounded like Fred Flintstone.

I am proud to say that the angel won out. I didn’t touch the stuff after 4-20. After that first day, that test, not wanting it became easy again. I still have a bit of it in the house, but I don’t go near it – just like the chocolate in the candy bowl I keep out for guests, or the liquor in the liquor cabinet. It’s there for folks who stop in, and maybe for me again someday, but not until I reach my goal. Final answser.

The binge weight came off fairly quickly. And I am oh so proud to report that I did not backslide. Monday morning April, 27…

Week Eight weigh-in (drum roll)…
220 lbs. (Down 25 lbs. 22 to go)

I’m back on track, feeling good…but I never did find out how that Cheech and Chong movie ends.