Wednesday, June 16, 2010

The Milk Bet

Oh, the milk bet… where do I begin?

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved milk. I would call myself an extreme milk lover. Some people may claim they drink milk with everything but I really do. Pizza? Yes. Hot dogs? Sure. Funyuns? Absolutely, wouldn’t have anything else. I guess it was during high school when a fellow camper at Sugarloaf Christian summer camp told me about – drumroll, please – The Milk Bet. Rumor has it that it’s physically impossible to drink one gallon of milk in one hour and keep it down without vomiting for another hour. I always thought I’d be like the Golden Child, the Chosen One… so after much discussion with my husband and several friends I decided to go all mythbusters and give it a shot. This is my story in pictures and commentary.
Here we go. I have a fresh gallon of milk and a jar of peanut butter to snack on. I’m just full of good ideas today. I’m all smiles during glass one (which is huge) and it goes down almost as smoothly as the first frozen margarita on a restaurant patio on a hot, summer night. Sweet.

Glass #2 – Still feeling good. Milk is tasty and it’s my friend. Nothing could possibly go wrong because we’ve had a long, fulfilling love affair since before I could talk.

Glass #3 – I’m feeling arrogant now. I’m halfway through the gallon and we are only 12 minutes in. I’ve got this in the bag. My husband is going to miss that $20 he bet me (yes, I’m a cheap date). I just might make him take me for ice cream after I’m done because I’m that sure of myself right now. I can almost taste the chocolate hard shell. Yum.

Glass #4 – At this point, I’m thinking of ways to make some more room in my stomach. The milk still tastes good but I’m starting to feel full and developing a bit of a headache. I pop two Aleve and excuse myself to go to the restroom. My husband follows me like he feels the need to watch me sit on the toilet. I assure him I won’t covertly vomit, then I pee and get back to the table to polish off the fourth glass.

Glass #5 – Let me start off with a story. When I was a teenager – probably 15 or 16 – I was very moody. Of course, I’m a woman and a redhead and I was going through my angsty years. As I’ve said before, I take my milk very seriously. One morning after my dad yelled at me for 30 minutes to wake up, I finally got up and prepared for school. I went to the refrigerator armed with a glass so I could have my morning drink. I stood there for a second puzzled. Is there no milk? Really? Has this man been raising me since I was 10 months old? Did my mother not remind him to stop at the store? I turned and calmly told him he needed to either go buy a gallon of milk or drive up the road and find a cow. He said no and I transformed into the Incredible Hulk with the intention of letting him know he wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. I screamed, stomped and slammed the refrigerator door so hard that I broke it. Yep. I’m not proud of this, but it’s a true story. Dad reminds me all the time. I broke our refrigerator door and he had to order a part to fix it all because we were out of milk… blah, blah, blah... So as I start glass five, I’m wondering why anyone would throw such a tantrum over a liquid that is so clearly sent from the devil himself. What is this foreign substance in front of me and why am I forcing myself to drink it in such mass amounts?

Glass #6 – I’m pretty sure my eyeballs are floating, aren’t they? I feel like I am having an out of body experience as I sit and look at what’s left of this gallon. I have 15 minutes left. So I try. I’m giving this a valiant effort. That feeling you get when you’re so full you can’t physically swallow another bite? Yeah, I had that to an unbelievable level and still somehow managed to get almost half the glass down. At this point I feel like I’m wearing a fat suit and begging my husband to let me take a Phenergan and I realize… I surrender. Yep. I’m waving the big, proverbial, white (ironic) flag. Can’t do it. I quit.

This is my “sad/I hate you for letting me do this to myself” face. I decide the best thing for me would be to retire to a warm bath with a trash can pulled to the side of the tub. I lay down in the water and call my friend, Amy, who tells me how mad she is at me for not just finishing the last half of a glass. I’ve let down everyone who had faith in me. I fail. J So I soak for a few minutes and meditate and repent for all of my misplaced arrogance and beg for mercy before retreating downstairs for one last picture.

Everyone say hello to my “milk baby”. He/she isn’t the cutest baby in the world but I love it nonetheless. Now I’m going to go make my husband nurture it with some lotion and a massage and go to bed with my fingers crossed that it will be gone and my flat belly will be back by tomorrow.