My first Gwyneth-induced hallucination: I have given birth to a daughter named Pear. She is shaped like a Bartlett. I devour her.
Can this only be day three of my Gwyneth Paltrow-sanctioned detox? It feels like week three. When Gwyneth said she’d be suffering right along with us, she wasn’t kidding. I think we’ve all been pooh-poohing the sacrifices stars make to maintain those physiques way too long, because I for one am spending most of the day famished. Seriously. It takes major dough, patience, and pain to be so gorgeous. Could it be that all those times we’ve watched celebrities gabbing with Regis and Kelly or yucking it with Letterman, let alone performing on stage and screen, that their bellies are howling like 10,000 coyotes?
Now I’m facing a day when my sole solid intake will be the oatmeal I just inhaled, and I’m not one to “inhale” oatmeal, especially not in the front seat of my car. Luckily Gwyneth didn’t specify how much oatmeal was allowable, so I ate four cups. (Just kidding, G.P.) This is going to be a long week.
At least a couple of yesterday’s offerings had moxie: My lunch of “Detox Teriyaki Chicken,” topped with chopped scallions and cilantro, was tasty and surprisingly sweet (agave syrup takes the place of sugar in the marinade). Gwyneth, we need to come up with a new name for the dish; the vision of a “Very Special Poultry Episode” of Dr. Drew’s Celebrity Rehab show comes to mind. I enjoyed the soups—a miso/watercress and a pea/basil—as much as one can enjoy liquid meals, especially when said meals are not a medical necessity but purely your own self-induced deprivation. But the last meal of the day is at 6, and the evenings are long and lonely roads of pity and self-reflection.
But as Gwyneth said in her last newsletter —this one advice from her life-changing trainer on how to achieve a firm New Year’s butt—“The sticktoitivness is what it is all about.”