And that, my friends, is what we call hubris.

I am so sick.  Despite the supposed success of my second-ever juice fast, it appears that my insides are rather desperate to make a bid for freedom, and they don’t seem to be all that particular about how they get there.

So much for my superior planning skills.

The last time I bumbled through a juice fast, my first encounter with solid food was MIRACULOUS. I had a small salad and some soup.  By the next day, I was eating the biggest and most delicious ham sandwich of my life – with zero repercussions.

This time around, I was much more cautious.  I sipped some homemade chicken broth, waited three hours, felt fine (except for my ravenous hunger), had more chicken broth and added some soggy, overcooked vegetables to the mix.

Then I watched three hours of The West Wing and went to bed.

Then I slept…badly.  I was up every half hour.  No gastric distress  – yet – but I was still horribly restless.

Then the morning happened.  My blood sugar was so low, my hands were shaking and I had a hard time walking down the hall from my bedroom to the kitchen.  I knew I wasn’t dehydrated because I chugged ungodly amounts of water before going to bed.

After steadying myself on the kitchen sink for a few minutes, I did the same thing I’d been doing every morning.  I made juice.

Then I felt better…for a while.

Then I felt lots worse.  That’s when the gastric distress began in earnest.

Several hours and several more episodes of The West Wing later, when what was left of my insides seemed content to stay on the inside, I tried some more broth. I know, I know…the definition of insanity and the rest of it.  I have faith though.  A few more episodes West Wing ought to set me right.

Here’s hoping anyway…

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