As I write this, it's Thursday morning, Thanksgiving Day. In about seven hours, my family and a few friends will gather at my house, and I will eat and drink all I want.
    For that, I am so thankful, because I'm frigging starving.
   I've just been juice cleansed. It's the latest "cool" thing to do, recommended to me by my Millenial daughters. For three days, I only drank really weird juices, some which tasted good, and some which tasted like motor oil.
    The process began weeks ago, when after a night of gorging myself, I woke up disgusted with my consumption. "Let's do a cleanse," I suggested to my wife. "I think I'm almost ready."
   "Go get 'em, big boy," she replied. "You're on your own."
   Clearly, she didn't understand how marriages work. If I was going to suffer, I certainly didn't plan to suffer alone. After a short discussion about the mysterious concept of support, she agreed to join me.
   We settled on the three-day cleanse, and I chose the three days before Thanksgiving so I could look forward to stuffing myself after my ultimate sacrifice. Of course, that makes little sense, but I was taking it one step at a time.
   In fact, I quickly learned I'm probably not the best candidate for juice cleanses. Knowing that the fateful three days were quickly approaching, I spent the last few weeks eating and drinking much more than I would normally do.
   I was like a bear getting ready to hibernate. On Sunday night, understanding that the next morning my life would take a drastic turn, I gouged myself with pizza and beer and other toxins, hoping the feeling of being stuffed would last for a couple of days.
   "You're a knucklehead," said my wife as she daintily nibbled at her salad while I wolfed down another piece of pizza. "You're supposed to cut down on carbs before you do the cleanse."
   Ignorant woman. Monday morning came around and I had no interest in food, while she was starving. I was already considering myself a master of cleansing.
   We happened to be flying home from San Diego early that morning, and when the Southwest flight attendant offered me the complimentary peanuts and pretzels, I waved her off.
   "I'm cleansing," I explained. "My body is a temple. I'll have a water, please."
   "He's got 62 years of toxins to wash out in three days," my wife added. "Wish him luck. And I'll have a coffee, please."
   I was aghast. "COFFEE! You can't have coffee! That's not part of the cleanse."
   "I'm feeling nauseous. I want my coffee. Get over it."
   Looks like I was going at it alone. When we stopped on our way home from the airport at Pressed Juicery in Larkspur to buy our six juice a day program, she opted out. Since it cost $120 for the three day program, I let her.
   "I'll just drink some of yours," she suggested. "You'll never drink them all."
   She doesn't know me. I was determined to follow the program, at least until I tasted the first juice when I was back in the car. Maybe she does know me.
   "YUCK," I cried, looking at the ingredients. "It has ginger in it. I hate ginger! You can have this one."
   I tried another one, and it had cucumber, pineapple, lemon, coconut water and aloe vera. Sure enough, it tasted like suntan lotion, and I told her so as I handed that one to her.
   "Aloe vera is a plant," she replied. "It's used for a lot of things besides suntan lotion. Keep trying."
    The other four juices were tolerable, so I cut short my program to four juices per day and went with those. And the topper, a vanilla almond concoction that has some healthy fats and is to be consumed at the end of the day, was delicious. Note the word "fats."
   In the end, while my wife succumbed to natural desires, I persevered and survived for the three days. I wasn't as hungry as I thought I would be, either because of the nutrients in the juices or because of the pizza gorging. I also had great energy and lost the five pounds I've been trying to lose for the last 27 years.
    All in all, a rousing success. But starting tonight, I have a new challenge that I need to address--- I suddenly have a toxin shortage.

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