My 24 Hour Diet

There are 2 ways to lose the love handles. 

One is not to eat this.

The other is to get the 24 hour flu.

I chose the flu.

And just before the flu, I ate the item pictured above.

I think it poisoned me. 

But that’s just my hypochondriac side coming out of the closet.

It started Sunday around 5ish, after the baby shower I gave for my sister-in-law, for which I made those darling little cupcake bites…

Then shot them out of both ends a little while later.

Great.

From about 5pm to 11pmish, I rarely left the bathroom.  And my husband is a saint. 

I have problems with fainting when I get sick…he and I both know that, so when I felt the fainting wave coming on, I shouted to him.  He had no idea I was sick, but must have sensed the urgency.

“You dead?”

“Almost.”

From then on, he stood in front of me while I sat on my porcelain perch hoping gravity would pull the flames out of my intestines through one end or the other.  My head resting like dead weight on his thighs. 

Then, I writhed to the floor in an attempt to get there in some manner other than by fainting. 

And groaned for a trash can.

When else IN YOUR LIFE would you decide it’s OK to rest your head on the edge of a trashcan?  I mean seriously.  When your insides are broiling and you are praying they’ll stop, somehow your definition of acceptable cleanliness practices go by the wayside.  You press your face to the cold tile on the floor and hope that at least some time in the past month, you mopped it.  (But knowing you didn’t.)  You go to sleep with throw up in your hair.

But the weirdest part of all, really, is when, having climbed back up to sit on the toilet, but still having the urge to vomit, I stared down the purple plastic tube that ended in the bottom of the vomit covered trashcan, staring at some bluish bits that couldn’t have come from the cupcake, wondering where they came from, and thinking what happens to a person when she gets really old and sick and her husband isn’t there to hold her head or she can’t walk fast enough to make it to the bathroom, and wouldn’t this be something good to write about. 

To write about.  Weird.

Who writes about stuff like this?

Should I really share my 24 hour flu with everyone?

Sure!  Why not.

Soon, I’ll be sharing stories of goat birthing, so why not start here?

–  The Goat Cheese Lady

P.S.  And, after my body rejected every source of food or drink it encountered for a day, then slept for the whole next day, my love handles are nearly non-existent.

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About The Goat Cheese Lady

I am Lindsey. At first I was a city girl. Then I was an urban farmgirl, attempting to balance city and farm life. Now, after moving to the country, I have embarked on life as a rural farmgirl, complete with my husband, the Animal Whisperer, man of exceptional knowledge and patience, two boys who are louder than my sister and I ever were, a herd of milking goats, and a flock of egg-laying chickens. Coyotes, mice, country dogs and prairie dogs are frequent visitors. Just 45 minutes north is Colorado Springs, the setting for our first six years in the goat world. Our family. Our city friends. Our introduction to cheesemaking. But we...and our growing farm and soon-to-be creamery...have set up shop down off of Highway 115 in Penrose, Colorado.
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One Response to My 24 Hour Diet

  1. Heather Hutmacher says:

    Hi Lindsey, I know you butcher some of your chickens to eat. Do you, or have you concidered, selling an already slaughered chicken for MY dinner? I’d love to support my local farm before I support my local King Soopers 😉
    Thank you!

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