Posts Tagged ‘the water diaries’
E: M, I desperately need your help. See, I have sneaked off and bought the nail varnish of my dreams which is the pretty, berry, Chanel April. I have waited. Lusted. Saved. And now I have it.
M: Good. HURRAH! Put some on, quick.
E: Yeah, see. There is a problem. And not just with HSBC. The problem is my nails. Are. FUCKED. The winter has killed them. They are split, cracked, weak and generally shit.
M: How fucked are we talking about here? Fucked as in ‘had a quick fumble on the sofa’?
E: No. Fucked like .. oh god. Don’t make me use pornographic analogies M, I’m waaaay too british for that. Fucked like … my garden after Satan has been for his morning stroll.
M: I see. Are your fingers aye-aye esque, E?
E: Worse, M. I can’t even use them to find grubs.
E: WHAT TO DO? Do you have any thoughts?
M: Yes, but you’re not going to like it, E.
E: Uh oh.
M: Yes. You know what’s coming. You need to…
M: … EAT HEALTHILY
E: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Please no.
M¨: Yes. Leafy green vegetables, shit with vitamin in it, calcium, that sort of thing.
E: Ok, I have an idea. How about I take those tablet things, what are they called? You know, the expensive skin ones that I bought and never used? Not Immodium. Something similar.
M¨: Imaaifhodiufaoidusiud. Beautiful skin, in a tablet.
E: Yeah, those.
M: I had some too.
E: Any good?
M: I lost them somewhere between Jakarta and Siem Reap. So WHO KNOWS.
E: I think mine are in my bedside table, but they might be expired shark cartilage.
M: Delicious, delicious shark cartilage. There’s another fabulous thing I want to recommend.
E: Oooh tell me. It better not be motherfucking rainbow chard, M.
M: Nope, no chard. It’s Sally Hansen Diamond Strength Instant Nail Hardener. It’s like coating your nails in ground up unicorn horn.
E: Oh, excellent. A product based solution: always the best.
M: That shit. Does not chip. And it turns your mails into fingerclaws. In a good way.
E: COOL. I long for claws.
Step 1: eat healthily
M: Step 2: switch to a gentle nail polish remover and the toughness of diamonds
E: Meh, ok, I suppose.
M: Step 3: feed them oil. Rosehip maybe? I clearly don’t know what I’m talking about.
E: Yeah, there must be some other unguent I can use. We should ask the Goopists. They might know. Please Goopists, is there anything you can save me from healthy eating and – sign of the cross – WATER? Help! I promise to try out and report back on whatever you recommend.
It’s summer, when people wear floral playsuits with no sense of irony and when Facegoop’s fancy turns to .. ice cream. And where there’s ice cream, there are wobbly thighs. So for the next few weeks we’ll be bringing you an epic follow up to the Water Diaries, the Cellulite Diaries. Be afraid, be very afraid.
Cellulite. I haz it. I have had it ever since I stopped doing 5 hours of ballet a week and started to eat Nachos for breakfast. I am plagued by terrible circulation, a strong desire for tasty salted pork parts, and a deep rooted hatred of exercise. I have recently instituted a daily ice cream break in my studio for the summer months. This has led me to:
The Vital Statistics:
Thigh circumference: 25. 5 inches.
Calf circumference : 17.5 inches.
Number of ridiculous lotions tried: too many to recall.
Number of ridiculous lotions that were unpleasantly sticky: all of them.
Number of giant bruises from cycling: 7
Amount of cellulite dislodged: non-existent.
Low. Looking at the statistics above, I realize just one of my thighs is the same size as other people’s WAISTS. Not even freaky people’s waists. Just, people.
I know my legs will not be replaced by ones worthy of an antelope overnight, or, indeed, ever. In fact a doctor recently told me I was bow-legged, which left a nice happy song in my heart. Thanks, doc.
I’d just like to be able to wear an above-the-knee skirt in the sweltering heat of Paris this summer. DO YOU HEAR ME, CELLULITE GODS??? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?
Body brushing: E has talked me into this. She says it works if you do it obsessively, so I have, like an obedient, distraught puppy, started brushing myself every morning before my shower. It makes me feel rather like a pony being given his daily cleanse, minus the strong pony odour. Oddly comforting. And what do you know? It works. My skin is much softer, and possibly even stronger. Win.
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil. It’s delightfully warming and the legologist says it works. It is backed up by some impressive and wonderfully germanic statistics. After 28 days, visible improvement of skin structure in 85% of cases, 20-25% increase in microcirculation, and a measurable thigh loss of 3.95 cms. This is getting slathered onto the drumsticks every evening, and my legs feel light, refreshed and hydrated afterwards. The boyfriend says I smell of ginger. Whatevs. The Oil is here to stay.
The Bicycle. My two wheeled love. I cycle every day but usually only for relatively short trips. I am going to make the most of the long, light, balmy (cough cough) Scottish summer and increase the number of 30 minute trips. Oh yes I am. Yes I am yes I am yes I AM.
Phew, that was tiring. Pass me an ice cream, E?
M and I bonded early on over our love of cellulite snake oil, pants with outlandish shrinking claims, spiked rollers to squish our thighs into submission. I love all that stuff. I’ve had hatchet faced Breton women pummel my thighs with a power hose, been wrapped in all manner of gloop, spent ages wobbling on a Power Plate.
No more. Now I have cellulite AND I’m poor. I don’t know if I’ll have to wear a swimming costume in the Isle of Wight in August, but I fear there’s a strong possibility, and my thighs are‚ well. They’ve seen better days. I try not to look. I’m typing this eating salted caramel chocolate which tells you everything you need to know about my diet. My only exercise is walking the dog, and when I say ‘walking’, I mean ‘sitting on a bench while the dog unearths old kebabs and condoms in the park’.
The vital statistics
Thigh circumference: 22 inches
(I’m not measuring my calves because I know there’s no way in hell I’ll be putting cellulite potions on them. They’re fine. They’re, you know, calf sized) .
Number of potions tried: Infinity plus
Number of bruises from drunken incidents: loads. Not sure. At least 5 big ones.
Amount of cellulite dislodged: At the moment I’m operating at a net gain of cellulite of 12 cm3 per annum.
The rot must stop.
Since I won’t be exercising or eating less, I don’t really have any expectations, but if I can get my thighs a little smoother and less, uh, GROSS, that would be great. If I can replace my body and face with those of Christy Turlington, so much the better.
Trusty cheapo body brush - it’s easy, it feels like it’s doing something, and skin definitely feels softer after use.
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil – M was impressed so I bought some. And what’s good enough for the Legologist is definitely good enough for me. I worship that woman. I have only used a couple of times. It’s, well, oily, but there’s a sort of tightening sensation that seems promising.
For the rest, well. I’ll try and drink some water and eat some vegetables. Can’t say fairer than that.
So here goes nothing: Cellulite Plan 2010 is go. It can’t be as bad as The Water Diaries, right?
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil, £12.10
Vintage Falcon bicycle as pictured above in gratuitous bike porn pic, get your hands off my bike, bitch.
This is the conclusion of our attempt to drink eight glasses of water a day, for one whole week.
M: So. Water. The weekend edition.
E: Yesterday: I bought and consumed three 50cl bottles. It was like my soul was dying. I am an enviro-vandal! WHAT OF KARMA?????
M: Karma doesn’t believe in plastic.
E: I mean, water is all very well, but that’s the planet I’m flaying.
M: I seem to remember you having some dependency issues with your central heating
E: Hmm. No comment. I didn’t see you complaining when you were here huddled in your blanket.. no hang on I DID see you complaining.
M: You know how I dismissed the coconut water the other day?
E: Yes, I recall. Grey. Tasteless.
M: Well, I drank the whole carton yesterday. Like a lunatic. It may not taste like the real thing, but it’s thirst quenching like the real thing.
E: And? Do you feel refreshed? Are your arms all sinewy?
Mi: No, I just want more. MORE. MORE TASTELESS PSEUDO-COCOWATER. They must sprinkle it with opium.
E: I see, it’s like Whiskas.
M: Whiskas? The cat food?
E: Once you have tasted it, no other beverage (or in the case of Whiskas, cat food) will do.
M: You eat cat food? Dude.
E: NO I DO NOT EAT CAT FOOD. I eat crisps. Leftover fishfingers. And this evening: a handful of frozen peas STRAIGHT FROM MY HAND. It’s Lord of the Flies round here. No cutlery. nothing. But definitely not cat food.
M: Are you quite, quite sure?
E: Shut up now.
M: So, I think we can both agree that we more or less had our water quota this week end, yes?
E: Yes. Plenty of the stuff today, more’s the pity.
M: Which brings us to the end of Water Week. Despicable, spiteful Water Week.
E: Yes. THANK FUCK YOU ARE OVER WATER WEEK. M, my skin has never looked worse. Not even when I was 14.
M: Why is that? We have disturbed the badness.
E: Yes. Oh god, we messed with the natural order and look what has happened. Water! it is supposed to stay in the bath and stuff.
M: Yes. Possibly useful for boiling pasta. But drinking it? No.
E: I have a big spot on my chin. I never get spots.And the rest of my face is a mass of small irritations. I am not even posting a picture of myself because I would like to sex again at least once in my life, and once that picture is out there, that would never be possible. Nope. Nuh-uh. No “after” picture. AFTER THE APOCALYPSE.
M: I thought we had a deal.
E: I am reneging on the deal.
M: Pffff. My after picture looks significantly better than my before picture. Though that might have more to do with the dappled spring light and the full afternoon of napping.
E: Well. GOOD FOR YOU.
M: Can I see though? I want to see. We don’t need to post it.
E: This is going to be like one of those LOLcat things. “U sed those pikchurs were privut. Why u put them on interwebz?”. But I trust you, M. Here you go. Seriously. you will see. It’s like it’s not me. It’s another person.
M: Oh my fucking god, you weren’t exaggerating! What the fuck!
E: I KNOW! I KNOW I KNOW.
M: You look like that little runt from upstairs who was arrested the other week.
E: Water has turned me into a ned. Great. Fucking brilliant.
M: A 14 year old ned. But hey! Water! It has miraculous anti-ageing properties! It’s turned back the clock by 20 years!
E: Fuck you and your miraculous properties, water. That is my conclusion for the week. And I will NOT be continuing to drink you. What is your conclusion for the week, M?
M: Well, obviously, I had disastrous monkey face for most of the week, so that wasn’t good. But, looking at my after photo (which we also won’t post), my hair is freakishly glossy and well behaved. And I don’t look quite so grey. Although I do still have brown bags under my eyes, but that’s because I don’t sleep.
So my conclusion for the week is: drinking more water is all very well, but if you don’t get any sleep you’re still going to look like shit. The end.
E: Ok. And there we have it. Highly scientific conclusions from team Facegoop.
M: I am going to keep it up. Or at least, try to drink a couple of glasses in the morning.
E: I’m not. I mean, why would I?
This is Day 5 of our attempt to drink eight glasses of water a day, for one whole week.
E: We need to talk about water. But I am warning you, it is not good news.
M: Talking of hydration, when I was in the hippie stronghold earlier today, I saw a carton of that designer coconut water endorsed by Madonna, so I bought some. £4.49.
E: Please tell me it wasn’t for a tiny juice box?
M: No! A carton, like a normal juice carton.
E: Ok. Continue. Have you tried it?
M: Well, you know how fresh young coconut juice is basically like heaven liquified? Take a couple of clouds, a few angels, some divine sunbeams and squeeze them into a coconut husk, or shell, or whatever you call them. WHAT ARE THEY CALLED????
E: Shell! Shell is fine! Chill out.
M: Well, this isn’t like that, at all. It’s kiiiind of like that. But grey. And flat. And a bit acidic. It’s PANTS. But it’s rich in potassium. It’s Potassium-rich PANTS. I am ranting. Stupid dumb ass expensive coconut water DE MON CUL. Next time, I will wait until the real thing is at the chinese supermarket, and I will hack at it with my giant meat cleaver as I usually do. The neighbours will not be pleased. But my wallet and tastebuds will thank me.
E: I like the sound of the machete and the hacking. It’s been a long week. But the madonna juice sounds vile. Ok, my turn. I have comprehensively, totally, fallen off the water wagon today. I have had two glasses. That seems like plenty. I was losing the will to live. Action was needed. So my hydration needs today have been met by 3 cups of tea, an espresso, and a gin and tonic. Water can fuck the fuck off .
M: Hmph. I think the gin and tonic can count. The rest, no.
E: Well, I don’t even care. Fuckit.
M: It’s Friday. Fuck off Water Friday. I need to pee.
E: Water can kiss my non-Ryanair branded ass. Sorry about the experiment.
I am a failure.
M: It’s ok.
E: No, it’s not. Sorry, Facegoop. I have let you down. I have let myself down I have let water down. And I still don’t give a shit.
M: You water rebel, you.
E: Born to be dry.
This is Day 4 of our attempt to drink eight glasses of water a day, for one whole week.
E: Our water diaries are boring, aren’t they? Almost as boring as drinking water.
M: Yes. No one wants to read the mind-boggingly dull details of our mundane existences.
E: So today, whiny water chat instead of diaries. I am not hating the drinking process quite so much, but I see absolutely NO benefits. Water is just pointless.
M: Actually, my skin is clearer this morning and I have not wanted any crap food for 3 days. No chocolate craving, no cheese craving, no ghee craving. I am also noticing a certain looseness round the lardy arse area, which may or may not be related. I may have to Weigh Myself tomorrow.
E: That is not my experience at all, and I think you are lying. I had to have a cup of tea and a Caramel in the bath last night. My body was aching for toxins. I’m just bitterly resentful that there’s no room for all the shit I would like to be eating due to the swilling gallons of water in my stomach.
M: I had steamed broccoli for lunch. STEAMED BROCCOLI.
E: I am appalled. I had a milkshake. This is working out better for you than me. No fair.
M: Also, I cleaned out my cosmetic drawer. It is tidy. Ish.
E: And you believe this to be water’s doing? Madness.
M: All I know is that I had four glasses of water before 11, and I was a flurry of activity this morning. I even sorted through my receipts, which I normally only do if someone threatens to lower me into a pit full of oversized rat-spider hybrids.
E: You are falling into the dangerous clutches of the water cult. I am sending in the cult deprogrammer with a family-sized bag of crisps. What I hate most about the Water Challenge is the way it keeps me from drinking as much tea as I would like to.
M: Well, that is because you are British, and foreign, and weird. And your blood is 87% tea. Strong tea.
E: I need pints of it to survive. PINTS. If my tea levels get any lower, I will end up in super rapid detox like a crackbaby in ER. In order to avoid that I had 2 pints this morning so there is no room for water. I have not had any. There is simply no space.
M: I could dip you in a cup of hot water if I wanted a nice comforting beverage.
E: In a normal week you absolutely could. I am dry and full of tea. I could be a new concept from Tetleys.
M: Water week is messing with my time perception. On Tuesday, I thought it was Saturday. Today, I’m convinced it’s Wednesday. WTF, WATER?
E: WTF indeed. I wake up thirsty. what the fuck is that about?
M: I always wake up thirsty. That’s just central heating, you weirdo.
E: Yeah, well I don’t. Never. And the heating is OFF. Spring has arrived in Belgeland, possibly for as long as 24 whole hours.
Basically my assessment of the Water Challenge so far is that it is a complete fucking drag. I can’t see any health or appearance benefits that would make me want to continue. However we are only halfway through.
M: Yes. You may have a last minute turnaround yet. Like a Ryan Air plane that you think is going to take off, but it doesn’t. Except in reverse. And with less advertising. And you don’t have to fear for your life.
E: That image really isn’t working, is it? I mean really? No. Apart from all the things you mention, I do not have a yellow harp painted on my arse.
M: No? You should check. Maybe you do.
E: Oh, I don’t think so. There is no way I am looking at my arse. I have been eating so much shit during water week that it has doubled in size
M: You might find it dewy, and plump, in a good way, from all the water.
E: Eewww. I don’t want to find it at all. I don’t want to look at my arse, I don’t want to drink water. What I actually want to do is sit in the sun with a very small very strong espressso. And DRY OUT.
M: Don’t forget your sunscreen.
E: Bugger off.
This is Day 3 of our attempt to drink eight glasses of water a day, for one whole week.
Day 3, still spotty. Stomach feels marginally less distended, which I attribute to the gin and tonic last night.
Conference call from home. Have glass #1 while preparing and glass #2 during. About half way through the call I am desperate, but DESPERATE to pee. I sneak into the loo with the cordless phone, hand over the mouthpiece. A girl’s gotta do, innit. The peeing is actually less disruptive to the call than the moment some time later when I get bored and click on Heatworld, leading to ear bleedingly loud pop music being unleashed on our legal discussions.
Call ends and I force down #3 and pee again before leaving the house. Charleroi – an industrial wasteland where I am heading for some species of ironic guided tour – doesn’t seem like the kind of place likely to have welcoming public conveniences on every street corner. I am seriously hampered in my mad dash to catch the train by the swilling, gurgling weight of my stomach. I am so out of breath when I reach the train I succumb to a mad coughing fit that just won’t stop. I have no water with me. Oh, cruel irony. An old lady hands me a Smint, disapprovingly.
Get a weeny bottle of water from a vending machine in Charleroi station. 1euro20! I could get a chocolate coated waffle and a packet of TUC biscuits from the same machine for less. What with that, and the 40 centimes for the ladies loo attendant, hydration is an expensive business in this country.
The urban safari through Charleroi is in fact exceptionally hard core cardiovascular trespassing, with slagheap climbing, jumping through fences and squatter dodging. I crack open my tiny bottle in the transit van, but Nicolas, the guide, makes sad eyes at me and says his mouth is “pateuse” from talking all day. I give him half.
We stop for a milkshake at Charleroi’s premier (only) mall. Nicolas, my guide, pronounces the word ‘mole’. We ask for a glass of tap water with our milkshakes which practically causes World War Three among the serving staff. A tiny half full glass appears. It has probably been spat in by Charleroi’s finest. I drink it. Between this and the half bottle, I reckon I have managed #4.
Finally home. I would actually quite like a drink, but one with a FLAVOUR, and possibly alcohol. I settle for eating all the cheese off the top of the children’s pizza and a glass of H2Blah. #5
What, more? Really? Fuuuuuuuuuck. I get stuck halfway through. Filled with nourishment ennui, I neither wish to eat, nor drink. I have prawny, vegetabley, dullness for dinner. I feel about 5 months pregnant. I limp through #6. I probably really need it after inhaling the toxic soup that is Charleroi air, but my body tells me what it actually needs is cocktail. Pints and pints of cocktail.
I think really really hard about disused factories full of rotting chemicals and decomposed pigeons and taxidermy rat kings to force myself through #8. It works.
Total: 8 (told you I was a single-minded, try hard, competitive bitch)
Verdict: Why am I doing this again?
Go to hell, water lover.
Whose stupid idea was this? And why am I waking up at 6:40? Can’t be bothered with the stale water. Thankfully someone knocks me out with a soft mallet and when I come to, I am wrapped in a blanket at my desk, typing.
My mint tea makes me hack up phlegm. This is the only fluid that will pass my lips until lunchtime.
I’ve given up on doing anything productive today. I’m fairly certain sticking a hot poker into my right eye would be more fun than drinking anything, but I gulp down a glass of the transparent stuff anyway. It tastes disappointingly like water.
My Barefaced Beauty (stupid name) minerals have arrived, hallelujah! Praise be the Dark Lords of the sorting office. I spend much time sifting tiny amounts of powder out of tiny containers. Water… I have heard of it, but I’ve never seen it. Why is the powder clumping around these dry bumpy bits on my skin?
We’ll gloss over the afternoon. Shhhh.
I employ trickery by filling my glass before I’ve emptied it. In this cunning way, I go through 5 glasses in 4 hours. Bwahahahahhaha.
Total: Fuck, still 7. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE. And shut up about the mint tea not being water.
Verdict: I see a trend emerging. Tomorrow, I tackle my problem head on by DRINKING IN THE MORNING.
This is day 2 of our attempt to drink eight glasses of water a day, for one whole week.
Wake up still feeling bloated, which is of course all water and nothing to do with the mountain of crap consumed yesterday. I have tea and crêpes. No water. And shout at the children. Wobble to work, feeling heavy. Is this how a hydrated, natural human is supposed to feel? I don’t believe it. You couldn’t run away from predators like this.
Work. First Glass. Blah, whatever. I don’t hate you, you’re just pointless. Look in mirror of truth – I have a spot just above my lip. It’s either water, or Crème de la Mer gel (a present! from someone who got it as a freebie! I can’t afford Crème ). I know who I’m blaming.
Feeling oppressed by the water burden ahead of me, I drink #2 standing by the coffee machine and bring #3 back to my desk. Coffee is awful. Water is awful. There is no milk in the building to make tea, only small containers of Belgian coffee creamer. Waaaa! I sneak down to a meeting I am not even attending and smuggle back 6 mini croissants, proper coffee and orange juice. This water regime is destroying me.
Drink #3 on conference call. Drink the orange juice too. Feel gross forcing more liquid into my groaning stomach, but I LIKE orange juice, dammit.
I am DYING to pee and conference call is still not finished. I bark staccato answers, dictated by my full bladder, to remaining questions. On the way back from the loo, I get #4 and ignore it. You’re not the boss of me, water.
Headache. I take a Nurofen with a miserly sip of #4.
Finish #4 and have consolation steak and chips in the canteen. No vegetables. I haven’t eaten this unhealthily for ages. This is all your doing, water.
Uninspired, I slump off to the water fountain and stand there, drinking #5. See, the secret thing about me is, I might be lazy and slatternly and half-arsed, but I really really like to WIN. I will not be beaten by this. I go into the ladies to pee, yet again. When I come out, I look in the mirror. My skin! It’s, it’s AWFUL. All the left side of my face is spotty. I have water-induced leprosy. I take #6 back to my desk, sulkily and try to mineral powder over the evidence.
#6 is almost bearable, but then, I am having a pretty shit day. Water is the least of my worries. I throw caution, and bladder control, to the winds and have #7 too. Oddly, #7 is possibly the easiest yet. I have no theories about this.
#8 is not easy. It is the thing I would least like right now. I would like something of a similar colour, but with ice, and approximately 40% proof.
Total: 8 glasses
Verdict: Fuck you water, I won’t do what you tell me. Except pee. That I will do.
6:41 I wake up and take a gulp of stale water from last night’s untouched glass. I have given myself the day off but my rebellious, uncaring limbs carry me to the living room, where I sit, dehydrated, sinking deep into the dark clutches of the interweb.
I scrutinize my face in the mirror. My eyes are blood shot and my skin a ripple of grey with red patches. There’s an odd, dry area of skin developing all around my mouth. I feel betrayal mixed with resignation. I retreat.
I snap out of my browsing trance. I have managed one full glass all morning. I’m not sure how it got to me. I force down a second glass. At lunch, the leftover curry salt rush gives me the mother of all thirsts. The 3rd glass feels like a thimble. I have the strange swimming palpitations usually associated with eating a tub full of MSG.
I spend an hour making a blueberry tart in our hot, tiny kitchen. Afternoon tea is a blur of cups and saucers. There may have been a 4th glass of water involved. I lie down on the carpet. The feeble daylight pathetically pushing its way through the dirty windows makes my face hurt. I hear cruel laughter and the release of a camera shutter. I don’t care.
Against my better judgment, I head into town for a small shopping trip. I wander aimlessly round BHS, snapping pictures of paper bins, the weight of a 500 ml water of bottle in my bag making me slump in the manner of a sulky teenager. I’ve lost the will to live. I find myself sitting in the makeover chair at the Bare Minerals counter. I am laughing nervously. I need to pee.
I’m in the toilet of a drab, dismal shopping centre. This is where all hope comes to die. I drink half of the bottle in retribution.
Lemon tea with ginger at a friend’s house. I’m pretty sure it counts as water. Special water with magical properties. I end up second in a Mario Kart race, my best score ever. Lemon tea with ginger is the nectar of the Gods. My head is pounding.
Back home, the last of the bottle helps me to swallow 2 ibuprofen tablets. I inflict water torture on a handful of unsuspecting gyoza. There’s kimchi and soy sauce involved. Another glass seems inevitable.
Total: 7, probably
Verdict: I spent the whole of this Tuesday thinking it was Saturday. Water is messing with my mind, like a particularly slippery brain worm.
This is day 1 of our attempt to drink eight glasses of water a day, for one whole week.
The before photo. We are not happy.
I never EVER drink water. Quite literally. I drink:
Tea. Usually the unhealthy black with milk Yorkshire Tea kind, strong enough to trot a mouse on.
A couple of Diet Cokes a week.
And that is all. I don’t even take pills with water – tea works fine. I must have been functionally dehydrated for about 6 years now, since the last time I drank water in any quantity was whilst breastfeeding my second child. Very occasionally, perhaps about once every two months, I get seized by a deadly thirst, but when I slake it I have to add Sirop de Grenadine to the devil’s beverage, or it won’t go down. I am not looking forward to the Facegoop Water Challenge. I thought it was a horrible idea, but M is persuasive*.
I take a photo of my dessicated Monday morning pre-make up face in the bathroom of destiny at work. Gross. I fill a first cup of water and drink it, alternating with coffee to take the non-taste away. One down. I need to pee. Normally I can sit at my desk all day without moving a single muscle – this is stealth exercise. I hate it already.
I try glass 2 without coffee. It makes my fillings ache. I think about the futility of human endeavour and eat an apple. This is more or less normal for a Monday.
Headache. I raid the chocolate cupboard, which involves stealing the key from my colleague’s drawer while she is in the toilet and claim two cheap and nasty Guylian “caramel” seahorses. Decide to wash my Nurofen down with water #3.
As I am hunched over the water fountain a colleague comes up. “What ARE you doing?” (see? My drinking water excites comment). I explain. “You shouldn’t drink too much if your body isn’t used to it” she says “Like those people on Ecstasy who die from drinking too much”. Great. I look forward to my brain swelling up and exploding out of my ears. Maybe this headache is the first sign?
Mini-Twix. This is supposed to be about the water, so I reckon my usual diet of trans-fatty chocolate miniatures must be continued. Controlled testing. On the back of the Twix, I manage to force down the remains of glass #3. Did I take a Nurofen? I can’t remember, but my head still aches.
After a large lunch I decide I need a muffin. NOW. I eat it. I blame water, possibly water on my brain. The experiment will be cut short it I top 20 stone. I go and get glass #4. If I check my Twitter feed as I drink, I can kid myself it’s, well, not water.
I need another Nurofen, so I go and get glass #5 to wash it down. I crack and get a coffee too. I drink # 5 while I wait for the coffee and bring #6 back to my desk. I feel bloated and I am starting to get water reflux.¬†
I force down the remains of #6. Bleugh. There will be no more water for some time.
I eat a fistful of lardons whilst preparing dinner. Salty. A good moment to force down #7. After #7 I feel I am fully justified in eating 2 fairy cakes and having an honest to goodness mug of tea. Before my dinner. What the fuck is happening to me? The children gulp down glasses of the stuff and ask for more. Weirdoes.
I have to write this stupid diary so I have the last glass. It is leftover from dinner, sitting next to me, taunting me. It is the glass that bursts the camel’s hump, or something. I feel revolting. The thought of doing all this again tomorrow makes me want to hurl.
Total: 8 glasses
Verdict: The thought of starting again tomorrow makes me want to bury myself alive. In the desert.
I like water. I really do. I just forget to drink it.
I hate having to remember about it. I hate having to go to the kitchen to rummage through the piles of dishes to find a clean glass. I hate having a bladder the size of a walnut and having to go to the toilet all the freaking time. Water. Go to hell.
I get up and spend a half hour messing around on the internet. I inevitably end up having to leave the house in a mad rush, limbs flailing and laptop falling out of my bag. I manage to guzzle a half glass of last night’s stale water before rushing off, while muttering dark curses under my breath.
I buy a bottle of water at my workplace’s canteen. It’s 5 pence more expensive than a cup of tea. My body tries to trip me up in the stairs in retaliation. Twice.
I run around trying to fix things before the start of my lecture. I am hot, and a bit sweaty.The bottle sits on the table, staring at me malevolently. Can YOU fix this projector, water? No? Then STFU.
First half of lecture over. I have spent half the day talking. I’m pretty sure that’s -3.5 glasses, at least. I guzzle the water with my lunch of potato wedges and pasta sauce. Really, canteen, you are spoiling us.
I fill up my bottle in the girl’s toilet. The sign (above) says “drinking water”, but I have been reliably informed by the janitors that this may not strictly be true. Whatever. I have a challenge, janitors. A BEAUTY challenge. I take a picture in the tiny toilet mirror. Someone has scribbled “You are beautiful” on the wall next to it. I recoil in horror at the results.
Lecture finished. I have miraculously finished the second bottle of water to calm a coughing fit.
I sit here, typing up this diary, fighting off a vague headache. I’ve forced myself to drink another glass. It tasted faintly of lamb curry and banana muffin. I feel queasy. My boyfriend brings me another glass. He gets the evil eye.
Total: 5 glasses. Maybe 6 if you’re lucky. I’ll drink another glass during the night so let’s call it 7.