By Casey Alexander

Day 1

Lately I’ve become wayward; there’s a layer of grime on my soul. A lack of progress, a certain stagnation. An unsettling realization: I have ceased to be my own hero. Plus I have a three-day weekend coming up and no particular plans.

An alteration is called for. I consider buying a wig or a hand drum, but they strike me as superficial. Perhaps it isn’t addition, but rather subtraction that is required. A dash of monasticism. If executed correctly, this adjustment will bring about growth. I am hoping to burst the seams of my jackets, metaphorically speaking. Cast a massive, heat-easing shadow across both space and time.

Surely there’s an updated, upgraded, cutting-edge version of me hiding inside of me somewhere, but how do I draw her out? After several hours of journaling on the subject, it hits me: the Chapstick has to go. The constant comfort, the agreeable sheen that endears me to strangers. Nothing but an indulgence that’s been weighing me down.

It is Friday, 2:37pm. I will maintain the Chapstick fast until 11:59pm Sunday. One final application of the cheery red wax, and I am off to the races. I revel in my resolve, thrilled to have taken definitive action.

Six minutes in, the drought commences.

I reach for my purse out of the force of habit; it hits me that the familiar balm is off limits, that there will be no relief. I am bewildered, bereft. The interval between resolution and triumph promises to be rather grim. I am to cross this desert on foot with no relief from the sun.

Dryness, despair. The quality of my life plummets; I’m no longer at ease on the earth. Like thirst, like not having slept, I feel it in every movement; it lends a certain rottenness to the day that I cannot outrun. Basically I hate it and want it to go away. However, this is an exercise in resistance. Like a blemish or an aspiring boyfriend, the feeling will go away in its own time; attacking it in some way will only make things worse.

This must be what being in labor is like, what being in the gulag is like. I clench my fists tightly, try to exhale the discomfort, make hash marks on a notepad to represent every minute that passes. Briefly I contemplate giving up but grit my teeth; the project is just too important.

It is better if my lips remain active. To this end, I enjoy a series of snacks and several gallons of tea. Additionally, I find great solace in water. I take frequent sips from a glass, roll an ice cube over my lips. Find an oasis in the shower, where I am buoyed by steam. I visit the latter several times in the course of the afternoon, whenever I feel like the fast is going to break me.

But any relief is short lived. I am pathetic and helpless, like a wilted petunia. In this weakened state, I should stay close to home; I may be overcome by the strain and start screaming. I look around the apartment for something to do, for someplace to put myself. My lilac Pilates ball calls to me from a corner, but I wave the prospect away. Surely toning body and soul in the same afternoon will bring about a collapse. I could set about alphabetizing my closet (the curative powers of this being well documented), or, as a last resort, I could do some work (though I don’t like professional burdens invading the Me sphere). Arrangements do need to be made for that anniversary party, the theme of which is “Rollins Hardware: Seventy-Five Years Young”. I am too keyed up to work out the per capita balloon rate (to reflect both the company’s work ethic and its sense of fun) or to order tea candles by the gross.

No, the best thing to do is to remove conscious thought from the equation. To this end, I watch seasons one through five of a sitcom I’ve been neglecting.

Eager for the distraction, I make a big deal out of dinner, serving Chilean sea bass with pine nuts and a strawberry sorbet. It is rather like eating on a plane—a bright interval in a grey expanse, a fleeting amusement that serves to kill time. I butter a roll with zest and precision, dedicating my entire mind to the task.

After a few more episodes, it’s late enough to justify going to bed. Brushing my teeth is deadly as far as the dryness goes, but it must be endured. I fall into bed, depleted. The day has been like a turbulent flight to Saigon.

Day 2

A moment’s joy—it is a sunny day; I’ve had a pleasant dream—before I’m clobbered by the thought of the project. Apparently I am still alive. There isn’t much more to be said.

It’s neither the first day nor the last. The initial excitement has passed. Only exertion ahead; toil and no champagne. I think it is best to retreat—to settle back into sleep and shave a few hours off of the morning.

By 11:49, I am better equipped to move forward, albeit with a sense of dread.

I turn on my computer and glance at the headlines. Sea levels are rising, area rents are rising, online searches for “How can I join a militia?” are up by eighty percent. I turn my eyes from the screen and wonder whether applying peanut oil to my lips would violate the spirit of things.

I visit the website of a favorite boutique; next to my bed, it’s the best place to rest when my systems can’t take any more. A jumpsuit catches my eye. I am empowered by the fact that it comes in violet and blue: even at a time like this, a person still has choices. In the end, I order both colors, along with two bikinis and a silk dress. This is both a reward for my progress and motivation to carry on (after all, by the time these things are delivered, I will be out of the woods). Come Monday, I will not be the same person; why would I wear the same clothes?

My friend Amanda calls to announce that her car has been stolen. She’s distraught, but I am immersed, and have little strength for the matter. The consultation is brief; I suggest that she call the police.

Lunch is a jolly affair, with fruit and executive cheeses. I take pains to arrange them in the shape of the Eiffel Tower before I make my selections. Following this, I draw out a candy bar as long as I can and make a few more pots of tea (I am working through the herbal collection; otherwise, I would be awake for a month).

After the banquet, I take to the sofa, find a documentary about a hair band that’s gone to seed. Most engrossing it is, and it puts my distress in perspective. (I too am in combat, but the enemy is in retreat: the dryness really only bothers me when I think about it. I will endeavor not to. This helpful strategy may serve me in other arenas of life as well). The program ends, but one scenic road leads on to another: I research the disintegration of other prominent figures, hear their stories with a mixture of amusement and horror. The way they look now is appalling, but in a way it raises my spirits: in comparison, the sight of my face is a comfort.

I examine my lips in the mirror, see subtle cracks appearing and wonder if I’m doing permanent damage. On the contrary: this is part of the process. They represent the cracks in my character, the inadequacies in my being. I must expose them, face them, that I may fill them with the superior balm of wisdom.

I click through a list of celebrities that I never knew were missing part of an ear. We are all missing something this evening. The only thing we can do is move forward and carry our burdens with grace.

Day 3

Less agitated this morning. My body has largely adjusted: mourned the loss of the wax and moved on. Now I must confront the aesthetic comedown that the fast has provoked. In good time, when I am ready to do so.

I spend the better part of the morning comparing flights to Marbella. Bracing, the thought of me in a towel, in better times. Post-fast, surrounded by sand. Take heart, sad traveler: there is a cabana at journey’s end.

By the afternoon, I am strong enough to venture out into the city: to circulate, unadorned, and see how the public receives me. Everyone that I pass will sense the gravity of the occasion; I wonder how they’ll react. The charmlessness of my face, or the aura of imminent triumph, is guaranteed to move them: they may look past me, or grimace, or want to shake my hand.

I enter the Public Garden and spot a swan in the pond. Of the two of us, I am the lesser in beauty but certainly the greater in courage. People stroll around, walk dogs, discourage their children from chasing the birds. As if it were an average Sunday. I move about among them, brace myself for adoration, rejection, awe.

They pass me, smile weakly, as if I were a regular person. A run-of-the-mill fan of roses. How do they fail to perceive what I’ve been through? My pale lips, my weary eyes must tell of a thousand sorrows. Either that, or my face must bear the radiant glow of achievement and the fine lines that character brings. Given the circumstances, I had rather expected a crowd to collect. Alarming how oblivious people can be.

A silver-haired woman approaches; I breathe deeply and plunge into the deep end. Odds are, someone so drab will be shunned.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” I call out in her direction.

“Let’s hope it lasts!” she says and continues on her way.

My lips are naked; my deficiencies are laid bare. I am stunned by the lack of reaction. Disappointed, and yet relieved. The conversation is short, but undeniable proof that in the social realm, I can succeed unassisted. The people may not acknowledge my struggle, but they’re willing to accept the results of it with good humor.

Back home, evening falls, and I am in a good rhythm: a marathoner in the last mile. In this groove, clarity comes to my mind. Suddenly the phone rings; it is my father. I resent the interruption, don’t have the energy to discuss the latest car he’s restoring. I declare that I’m busy and hang up. On the bright side, the call has sparked a reflection. My father has always had a car on blocks in the driveway; my friends and I have ourselves on blocks instead. Our creative, restorative instincts are directed toward a higher pursuit—the cultivation of the soil from which all other wonders will spring. In this process (likely the work of a lifetime), masterpiece and maker are one: I am the macrame towel rack, the glittering ship in a bottle. The roaring, imposing Trans Am.

Midnight strikes! The fast has come to a close. What a ride it has been! I consider the puny, unremarkable figure I was at the start of this journey and no longer recognize her. Exhilarated, transformed, I welcome my Chapstick back like a friend—a proper friend whose presence I can enjoy, but who I will not perish without. Now that we’ve been reunited, I must hold fast to the lessons I’ve learned.

Fortunately, I have recorded the whole of the weekend. When I am up to the task, I’ll distill it into a film, highlighting the most harrowing scenes and adding thoughtful narration. I will post it online, that others might be moved to choose a higher path, to de-blockhead themselves, as it were. The film could be the first in a series. The CHIP (Crackerjack Human in Progress) series will be a sensation. In future installments, I’ll eat thirty small meals a day, hold a funeral for an old mindset, change the rise of my jeans in order to combat inertia. A companion blog of the same name will illuminate even more lives.

It would be naïve to say that humanity’s troubles are over because of a single magnificent act. Nevertheless, the world is demonstrably better this evening. I am better, and I am part of the world; therefore, the world is finer as well.

I have thrown my starfish into the sea. Brought my bow across the strings, played a solitary note with great spirit. The rest of the symphony will emanate from elsewhere. What meaning will lie in this music? What movements will it inspire? Only the sacred universe knows. I am but a single, weary musician, relieved to lay her instrument down.