De-Bloating Device

As I welcome June with open arms, I welcome bloating with the middle finger. Bloating of the PMS kind. Argh. The absolute worse.

Shellie's Proverb: A woman with stiff forehead will never be happy with herself.

In the past day or two, my stomach has taken a turn for the worse, it's bulged. It's a bit discouraging with all the progress. I was afraid to weigh in on Wednesday as the restriction in my waist was very telling. Instead, at the gym, Kurt and Shane bullied and insisted that I jump on the scale. Peer pressure anyone? I jumped on the scale and quick-like made haste and jumped off. Not bad, but no progress.

Break it down for a sistah, scientifically:
When blood breaks down progesterone, the identical chemical structure to the substance made in a woman's body by the ovarian corpus luteum (some gland), --as it does a week before your period-- kidneys are prompted to retain both water and sodium. At the same time, a powerful water-retaining substance called anti-diuretic hormone may also be released, further influencing your body to hold onto fluids.

Leroy's term:
Yo beeotch! Lay off the crack. Dat stuff is like whack diggity double stack.

Double gulp. Sodium the unfriendly drug. The habit that I can't kick. I'm hooked on the junk. Chef Quinn Hatfield (the disciple of Wolf Gang, Rocco Dispirito, Jean Georges, David Bouley) has strictly trained me that salt resuscitates life into dishes. Salt is the fuse in fusion. Without it, food is dead. Boring. Bla·sé. I take from my culinary career, the power to salt. As I drown my dishes with mad salt, my taste buds scream in delight, but my body moans, frets, and plans vindiction. I curse you salt for betraying me. Sob. Sodium, I can't seem to quit you!

Lesson: A young Grasshopper must learn to not lick a salt stick when the sound of running creek is absent.

*The content of this entry should only be taken with a grain of salt*