When my husband asked me to do the Whole 30 with him, I was totally on board. I thought the plan, which calls for eliminating alcohol, sugar, grains, soy, legumes and dairy for 30 days, would purify my body. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be a sugar-free woman. I imagined my mood swings would stabilize, my skin would radiate, my aches would evaporate, my sleep would deepen, my patience would be monk-like.
So we cleaned out our pantry in a chametz-purge fashion, made a pact not to break the diet, and then spent our school tuition budget in Whole Foods.
The night before the diet started, I ate the food I knew I would miss the most – over-buttered toast — and read up on how to cook using every edible extract of the coconut.
In the morning I made eggs using coconut oil, added spinach and tomatoes and chives, and sliced up a banana. That night, after following Whole 30 Recipes on Instagram, I made a Whole 30-approved chicken tikka masala and it was so good I didn’t miss the rice. The next morning I repeated my breakfast and went on a rant about the evils of cereal.
That was last time I felt normal.
If you are considering doing the Whole 30, I suggest you ask yourself these questions first:
- Do you like the taste of coconut and emptiness?
- Will you never tire of chopping vegetables?
- Do you want to quadruple the amount of time you spend thinking about food, its preparation and its ingredients?
- Do you enjoy unprovoked hormone surges?
If you have four yesses, jump on board. Maybe it will work for you. Or maybe you'll get a taste of this nonsense:
I felt umbilically connected to my kitchen and resentment grew like Taylor Swift's fan base. I cherished the precious moments when I wasn’t preparing a meal. If anyone asked me what was for dinner, God help them. If my husband ate the last of the sugar-free bacon or pasture-raised eggs, I sent him passive-aggressive text messages. I was as alert as a 10th grade pothead. Everyone who saw me asked if I felt OK.
"You don't seem right," said more than one friend.
"You look worse than I do," said another girlfriend from her hospital bed.
But I felt VERY lean.
At what cost? I haven’t yet mentioned my Whole 30 Parenting. Since I spent whatever energy I had chopping fruit and vegetables, there wasn't much left for the kids. They could see how depleted I was, and at the end of the second week, Ezra, my 8-year-old, took pity on me.
"Mom, you need a hug," he said last Friday night, embracing me.
"Thank you sweetie. I just don't feel right."
"Please stop the diet. Please?" he pleaded, opening the cabinets. "Have a chocolate chip or something!"
Halfway through the 30 days, I was not about to quit. Not before my husband, anyway. That night was Shabbat and we had friends over for dinner. They presented the wine we wouldn’t drink, I unveiled the homemade challah we wouldn't eat. The rest of the meal was Whole 30-approved. And it wore me out. I've had more energy on Klonipin.
"Jenny, you don't seem like yourself," my friend said. "You've lost your spark."
"Oh, she's been crazy," said Maxon, my 11-year-old. "And she always wants me to eat avocados."
"Have I been that bad?" I later asked Maxon.
"You're way different. During the diet I saw how good I had it. If you were healthy all the time it would be terrible. If I could choose between regular awesome mom and diet mom, I would choose awesome mom."
After talking to my kids, whatever I thought I would get out of adhering to the strict Whole 30 plan didn't seem worth it. That night Michael and I agreed to modify our rules and had a glass of wine and some challah. The next morning I had challah toast and added butter and wine to my diet. It took almost a week, but I started to finally feel normal.
Despite the health benefits – which I do believe in – maybe the Whole 30 is the wrong diet for a woman like me.
'Cause I like hot butter on my breakfast toast.