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Office Juice Cleanse Diary: Day Two

Day Two. Clearly the juice cleanse is taking its toll on the participants, the Juicers, who are now halfway through their ordeal. You can spot Juicers by their slurred speech, lethargic pace and inability to maintain concentration. When talking to a Juicer they always try and steer the conversation back to that which they crave yet can not have, that which they need yet deprive their own bodies of: Solid food. It goes something like this:

Me: “Can I get approval on my logo? The show is a month away and I was kind of hoping to have a logo. And maybe meetings.”

Juicer: “Sure, I’ll talk to pizza.”

Me: “Did you just say pizza?”

Juicer: “I’m sorry, I meant bagel.”

Me: “You’ll talk to bagel about my logo?”

Juicer: “With cream cheese. Toasted.” (weeps)

Already some have fallen - thrown their hands up and admitted defeat. “I had sushi last night,” confided one sad soul, her head hanging in shame. “Don’t worry,” I reassured her, “by Friday your cowardice and lack of willpower will probably be forgotten.”

Another Juicer nearly broke down in tears at the sight of the Chewers, people like me, who on a daily basis celebrate the diversity of the sidewalk food carts just downstairs. Today we dined on chicken Biryani prepared from a man of Bangladeshi origin. Not to be confused with the Bangladeshi lamb guy from yesterday. I guess Bangladeshi guys run the sidewalk food carts. It doesn’t matter where they come from because it was delicious and served on yellow rice seasoned with saffron, the absurdly expensive spice. Dominic had lamb chops, baked potato and asparagus, all lovingly prepared by his wife (don’t tell N.O.W.).

It’s hard to watch your co-workers suffer. When I walk through the office with my container of Biryani delicately saffronizing the air, my heart bleeds for them. Many of them suffer in silence, I know. Today, while standing at the expensive printer awaiting the output of a 32 page policy analysis of the PATRIOT Act, I happened upon this heart-rending diary entry from some poor, anonymous Juicer soul:

I don’t know how much I can take. The pain radiating from my kidneys in unbearable. I find myself irritable and disoriented. This morning I was supposed to be in a three-hour meeting to discuss how many blackboards Glenn would be needing on the set of his new show. Instead, I found myself curled in a fetal position in emergency stairwell B, weeping. All I can think of is food. Glorious food. Chocolate. Bread. Apples. Popcorn. Cheddar. I’d write more but I have to pee for the 37th time today…

But still the Juicers carry on. And I have faith in them. Many will fall, but some will wake up on Friday morning having only had juice for three days. I admire them. Their willingness to deprive their bodies of solid sustenance is fascinating, especially for no conceivable gain; on Friday they’ll no doubt eat like ravenous dogs and share their Juicer war stories with us Chewers during Happy Hour.

One last thing…
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