...and don't panic! The Know brings you advice during housing
A true friend is always there for you, especially when you're drunk.
Miss Quit regresses to her childhood this week as the prospect of beginning the "University of Life" looms.
A coffee-filled mug the size of my head rested in my lap as I shamelessly avoided eye contact with the pile of books on the table, and unleashed my outrage at the pointlessness of beauty salons for dogs upon my poor friend.
Just as I was about to take another mouthful of the warm, brownish liquid, it hit me: I had become a cliché - a coffee-drinking, trash-watching, nail-painting cliché. Well, that was it. Something had to change. I felt a sudden urge to contribute something to the greater good. To do so, I figured I had to resist the seductive insanity of contemporary society. It may not win me any Nobel prizes but at least it would give my long-suffering roomie a break.
So that, dear reader, is how I came to be Miss Quit. Each week I will test my willpower (and risk my health) by abstaining from a certain indulgence, faithfully recording my experience for the benefit and/or amusement of others. If the experience proves to be successful I may decide whether to give up the vice for good, or to give in to it. A kind of self-experiment, if you will.
Ok, ok, I know what you’re thinking – this Miss must be a masochist. Yet, although it may seem as if I’m signing myself up for a prolonged, not to mention premature, New Years resolution style Purge-Binge catastrophe, the experience so far has proved to be…surprisingly bearable. Well, almost.
My first challenge was to be a detoxification. A week ago today, I banished all dairy products from my section of the fridge and, ergo, from my body. Believe me when I say that this was no mean feat. Bottle-fed from birth (read into that what you will), I loved my milk. Skimmed and frothy was how I took it.
As a long-term Starbucks-o-phile, my daily extra-large latte was more of an addiction than a habit. Naturally it was the first thing to go, and boy, did I miss it. The first 48 hours were like how I imagine rehab: mostly spent rocking back and forth in the corner of a darkened room.
The first 48 hours were like how I imagine rehab: mostly spent rocking back and forth in the corner of a darkened room
To make matters worse I could have no adequate placebo either - there was to be no chocolate, no cheese, no ice cream (I still don’t know whether I have come to grips with the end of my mint-choc-chip days, sorbet just does not do it for me), and absolutely no mercy.
What there was to be much of was frantic checking of food labels. You will not believe what they are putting in our food…I mean, milk protein in chicken? Am I missing something here? Anyway, the point is that whilst it doesn’t sound particularly challenging, forgoing the white stuff is a dietary minefield. All this, and I haven't even come to what was perhaps my most major setback: other people.
The wonderful souls who make up my daily company include four flatmates and a boyfriend whose idea of a gourmet meal consists of cheese, cheese and an extra side of cheese. Four different kinds of milk stand proudly in our fridge, triple that number and you have some idea of the sheer bulk of fromage that gets consumed each week. It was becoming increasingly evident that not only the Gods but also the flatmates were plotting my failure.
It wasn’t all doom and soya-based gloom however. I eventually found a healthier, if less appealing, hot drink addiction in green tea, although I must shamefully confess to adding sweetener in order to mask the characteristic bitter taste. Not to mention the fact that ending my affair with Mr Starbucks has left me with more bucks.
If you can live without cheese (the non-dairy alternatives, with names such as ‘Cheezly’ and ‘Sheese’, are far too scary to even contemplate), banning the cow nectar can also have its health benefits. My energy levels have noticeably increased, I no longer have crippling head or stomach aches, and there’s none of that unpalatable back-of-throat-cloying which lingers after a dairy-based treat.
Call me a hypochondriac, but I am convinced that I may just have been lactose intolerant all along. In fact, I've even got used to the distinctive, somewhat sickly taste of soya milk. Whilst this way of life (I shall abstain from going as far as calling it a ‘religion’, though ‘cult’ seems oddly adequate) is not for everybody, this quitter is seriously considering becoming a Dairy-free Queen for life. There will be no living with me now.
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