by A. J. Jacobs
I keep waiting for an epiphany. Some people say juice fasts clarify their thoughts and give them fresh energy. Unfortunately, for me, it’s having just three effects.
• Hunger. I’m hungry enough that I started to salivate at the sight of lettuce. I repeat: lettuce.
• Crankiness. At one point, I called up BluePrintCleanse customer service because I thought they sent me the “Renovation” cleanse instead of the “Foundation” cleanse I’d ordered. I snapped at them. I turned out to be wrong. Which made me feel terrible for the employees. Can you imagine a grumpier clientele than underfed New Yorkers?
• Spaciness. On the third day, it took me nearly a minute to dial my phone, as I kept losing my train of thought.
When it was over, I craved something solid, something that could break a window if you threw it hard enough. I settled on a potato, which I roasted in our toaster oven, and which was wonderful and nonliquidy—though certainly not optimally healthy (too starchy).
It’s been a week since my juice fast. I do miss that almond milk—that could have been one of the best beverages I’ve ever tasted. But do I feel clear of toxins? Not really.
Maybe I didn’t go into it with an open enough mind. The problem for me, though, is there’s little science supporting juice fasts. There’s a bit of science on the benefits of general, intermittent fasting. According to a 2008 study in the American Journal of Cardiology, fasting is linked to a decrease in heart disease.
But the cleansing claims? As Katherine Zeratsky, a registered dietician with the Mayo Clinic, writes in a cleanse-debunking article, “Most ingested toxins are efficiently and effectively removed by the kidneys and liver and excreted in urine and stool.”
I don’t think I’ll be ordering a second round from BluePrint. Probably a relief to their customer service reps.
The Water Cure
The healthiest liquid, unless you are a newborn in need of colostrum, is, of course, the simplest liquid: water. Sugar-free, vitamin-unenhanced water. We were built to consume it.
How much per day? I’m sure you’ve heard we should be drinking eight eight-ounce glasses a day. It’s a handy mnemonic, but turns out, it’s based on flimsy or nonexistent evidence. The Mayo Clinic puts it this way: “If you drink enough fluid so that you rarely feel thirsty and produce between one and two liters or more of colorless or slightly yellow urine a day, your fluid intake is probably adequate.” Which is good. I don’t have to count ounces, one fewer item on my ever-expanding list of daily tasks.
Unfortunately, another question—what kind of water is healthiest?—turns out to be a surprisingly complex problem that took me on an unexpected quest.
First I learned that it’s probably not the stuff that flows out of our faucets. My friend Charles Duhigg did a massive investigation of drinking-water safety for The New York Times in 2009. It was a disturbing series. “As many as 19 million Americans may become ill each year due to just the parasites, viruses, and bacteria in drinking water.” Nineteen million. And that’s just the germs. There’s also carcinogens. “Some types of cancer—such as breast and prostate cancer—have risen over the past 30 years, and research indicates they are likely tied to pollutants like those found in drinking water.” Even if the water passes EPA standards, it could still be problematic. Your water could be within legal limits for arsenic but still pose the equivalent danger of 1,664 X-rays.
Dear Lord. I’d mindlessly drunk tap water all my life. I figured the government wouldn’t let poison flow from the taps. But in general, I’m too trusting of the government. I’m the polar opposite of the Tea Partiers. I have no problem with a nanny state. But in this case, the nanny state has been chatting on the cell phone and ignoring the baby as it plays with matches.
Another option: bottled water. Global bottled water is a $60 billion business, as Elizabeth Royte wrote in her book Bottlemania. It’s a decent alternative—but not necessarily safer than tap.
The regulations for bottled water are just as imperfect as those for tap. In 2006, Fiji ran an ad that said, “The label says Fiji because it’s not bottled in Cleveland.” Don’t mess with Cleveland. The city had its water tested, and found no measurable arsenic. Fiji had 6.3 micrograms of arsenic per liter—below the legal limit, but still.
The other problem with bottled water—at least on the liberal Upper West Side—is the glares you get from neighbors. Carrying nonreusable bottled water is an environmental crime. As my friend told me, only half jokingly: “If you open an Aquafina water and listen carefully, you can hear the earth weeping.”
So for my stress level, I’m looking beyond bottled water. I asked Duhigg to point me toward the healthiest glass of water in New York City. “Go to Pure raw food restaurant,” he says. “It’s the only restaurant that boasts its filtration system on the menu.”
I enlist Julie to come with me to the downtown vegan restaurant. She’s more than a bit skeptical about trekking forty-five minutes for a glass of water.
“This better be one hell of a glass of water.”
“I hear that it’s like the dew from God’s front lawn,” I assure her.
When we get there, the owner, Sarma Melngailis, a stunning blonde, former Wall Street trader, tells me about the Tensui Water Filtration System. “Everything in the restaurant is from this water. The vegetables are washed in it. Even the toilets have it.”
Julie suggests a slogan: “Pure Food and Wine—where you can drink the toilet water.”
Sarma laughs, though demurs. She does say she likes the water so much, she has her pitbull drink it as well.
The waiter pours us our glasses. I swish it around in my mouth. I chew it like an oenophile.
Julie takes a sip as well. Her eyebrows rise.
“It’s actually really good.”
“Really good,” I agree.
I’d always thought drinking water tasted like drinking water. About as interchangeable as aspirin brands or Michael Bay movies. I was wrong. This glass of water was particularly smooth, like drinking velvet or riding in a Bentley. This was damn tasty water.
The Tensui system claims to suck out the contaminants (chlorine, fertilizers, pesticides) while at the same time “enhancing” your water with minerals (calcium, magnesium, zinc, potassium, negative ions, etc.). Though I should mention there has been little research on whether mineral-enhanced water is better for you.
I’d love to install the Tensui system in my home. The only problem? It’s fifteen thousand dollars.
I ask Duhigg what to do. He says the best brand that won’t force me to take out a second mortgage is called PUR. They make plastic pitchers with effective and replaceable carbon filters. New York has pretty decent water, Duhigg adds. “If you lived in New Jersey, you’d need a more sophisticated system, like a reverse osmosis one.”
I buy my PUR filter. To make sure it works, I hire a lab to test my tap water versus my PUR water. Sure enough, the PUR filter has lower levels of rat excrement and fingernails. Of course, there’s a catch. If I forget to change my PUR filter after two months, it’ll start to leach chemicals into the water and poison my family.
Cold Comfort
One final water dilemma: What’s the healthiest temperature of water?
Many of my books and advisers made a strong argument that tepid water is healthier. There are several alleged reasons: Tepid water soothes the stomach. It might even prevent cancer.
This was welcome news. For years, I’ve had an outsize aversion to ice water. I’ve always found it jarring and headache inducing.
So passionate was I about tepid water, I wrote a college essay about the man who foisted iced drinks on the world: Frederic Tudor, a nineteenth-century Bostonian known as the “Ice King.” Tudor was a genius. He bought up eleven New England ponds, and during the winter, he chopped them into enormous chunks and shipped them south. Even smarter, Tudor created a demand where none existed. A wily PR man, he whipped up a vogue for iced drinks, promoting them in Cuba, Martinique, and the southern United St
ates.
Tudor even makes a cameo in Walden. Henry David Thoreau was innocently trying to commune with nature and avoid paying taxes when Tudor’s ice cutters descended on Walden Pond to carve it up. I resent Tudor and his misbegotten legacy of ice.
So I was delighted to hear that ice was dangerous. Until I researched it further. Unfortunately, evidence-based science gives little support to tepid-water claims. Most hard-nosed physiologists dismiss them as hogwash.
To my dismay, I’ve learned the opposite is true. Ice-cold water is probably healthier. Why? Cold water might help you lose weight. It has negative calories. Here’s how Cornell psychology professor Brian Wansink explains it in Mindless Eating: “Since your body has to use energy to heat up an iced beverage, you actually burn about one calorie for every ice-cold ounce you drink. So that 32-ounce drink will take you 35 calories to warm up. No big deal? If you drink the recommended eight 8-ounce glasses of water a day, and if you fill those 64 ounces with ice, you’ll burn an extra 70 calories a day.”
Seventy calories. That’s nearly the equivalent of walking a mile. Or according to my Fitbit, having passive sexual activity. So in the interest of my waistline, I’ve started putting ice in my portable BPA-free charcoal-filtered water bottle.
Checkup: Month 20
Weight: 158
Average grams of sugar per day: 25
Cups of coffee per day: 1.5
Times unsuccessfully attempted to switch to green tea: 7
Number of yoga instructors who have been surprisingly rude to me and other students: 3
Turns out fear of failure is a wonderful thing. It has inspired me to train for my triathlon every day. I alternate biking, running, and swimming.
I’ve convinced myself I know what I’m doing, thanks to my copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Triathlon Training.
When I pedal my bike around Central Park’s Great Lawn, I don’t just push down with each leg. I do the full-circle pedal, keeping the pressure in all directions, down, up, forward, back. You know, like a triathlete.
When I swim in the Jewish Community Center pool, I roll my body from side to side. I slide my arm into the water like I’m putting on a coat—as opposed to slapping the water, which is what I used to do. Again, like a triathlete.
When I run, I do my grueling High-Intensity Interval Training, which is more efficient, but still takes time.
In fact, training is eating away at my schedule. This Sunday, I came back to the apartment from a run. My face was red; a half-moon of sweat soaked the bill of my baseball cap.
“Welcome back,” Julie says. “You missed a great show.”
Lately, the twins have been staging the occasional off-off-off-Broadway show for Julie and me. They usually choose an improvised version of a fairy tale, like “Three Billy Goats Gruff.” But the play itself is almost incidental. The important part of the production is the preshow announcements—that’s what gives them the biggest thrill. Lucas will step in front of the couch and announce with great pride, “Ladies and gentlemen. Please turn off your cell phones.”
Zane will add, “And no flash photography because it disturbs the actors.”
Then they’ll congratulate each other on a job well done, giddy from the glamour of theater management.
But today, I missed both the preshow announcements and the show itself.
“Can I see an encore performance?” I ask.
The twins shake their heads. They’re not in the mood.
I hate missing these historic events. I’ll live. I’ll see another one of their plays, no doubt. But this underlines something that’s become increasingly clear: The health project is taking time away from my family. Which is probably not healthy.
I recently read an article in The Wall Street Journal called “A Workout Ate My Marriage” about exercise widows and widowers. There are quotes from therapists who counsel couples in which one spouse’s fitness addiction drives them apart. The men skip breakfast with the family for an early-morning trip to the gym. The women miss romantic dates in favor of doing laps at the Y.
The bottom line: Health obsession can turn you into a selfish bastard.
There are half solutions. Whenever I can, I try to exercise with my family. I run errands with Zane on my shoulders, or jog behind Lucas as he rides his Razor scooter.
And then there’s this rationale: I’m exercising so I can be around for my kids when they get older. Maybe you need to be selfish in the name of selflessness.
Chapter 21
The Gonads
The Quest to Get More Balls
I’VE BEEN MEANING TO SEE a urologist since my ill-starred attempt to jump-start my sex life. Now fate—and Esquire magazine—has led me to Harry Fisch, M.D.
I meet Fisch at an Esquire symposium where he’s giving a lecture on men’s health. A prominent urologist—a regular on the Dr. Oz show and author of The Male Biological Clock—he’s six feet tall and has good posture, sharp suits, and a big laugh. He exudes his favorite hormone, testosterone.
After his lecture, I approach Fisch and tell him I’d be interested in coming to see him. Fisch says absolutely.
“When I do a prostate exam, it’s easy. I use one finger. Maybe two if I need a second opinion.”
He unleashes his big laugh. “I love that joke. Heard it from a cabdriver.”
A week later, I’m in his sleek Park Avenue office, sitting across from him at his desk.
“The penis is the dipstick of the body’s health,” says Fisch. “What’s good for the heart is good for the penis. It’s all the same blood vessels. Should we do a checkup? C’mon, let’s do a checkup.”
We walk to the exam room next door, and I drop my pants as Fisch snaps on a glove. While he examines me, I turn my head and look off into the distance, like Obama in that Shepard Fairey poster. It’s my attempt to retain a smidgen of dignity.
Fisch stands up. He’s not going to sugarcoat it.
“You have old-man testicles, my friend. Low-hanging fruit.”
The problem, he says, isn’t just aesthetic. It’s that these may be a sign of low testosterone.
“You came in and thought you were healthy,” he says. “You’re not. I mean, you’re fine. But you could be a lot healthier. It’s about prevention. Twenty years down the road, you’ll be like this.” Fisch slopes his shoulders and shuffles along.
Before we decide on a course of action, Fisch says I should get a semen analysis.
“Okay. Who should I call to set one up?”
“How about now?”
Turns out, there’s a lab right next door and they have an opening. I was unprepared, but it’s hard to say no to Fisch.
At the lab, the technician gives me a cup and leads me to a small room. Maybe it’s my low testosterone, but this room seems like the least erotic place in the world. I don’t think all the maca powder in Peru could help me here.
I shut the door—and am alarmed to find out the walls are far from soundproof. It’s probably my imagination, but the walls seem to amplify the sound, as if there are woofers and tweeters hidden in there. I listen as the staff chatters away about delivery times and appointment switches. I notice a small table loaded with a stack of Playboys, which is thoughtful, I suppose. But these Playboys are faded and wrinkled, dating back to an era when Hugh Hefner didn’t need Pfizer’s help to have sex.
It took a while. I’ll skip the details, but let me put it this way: I was in there so long that when I emerged, the guy at the lab said, “Congratulations.”
A few days later, Harry called.
“Your testosterone is low!” he says.
His tone was so confident, almost upbeat, it made me unsure how to react. My testosterone clocks in at 245. The average for a man my age is 300 to 1,100.
Low testosterone sounds bad, and embarrassing. But on the other hand, so what? What’s the problem with being a little on the, shall we say, artistic side? I’m not looking to join the New Zealand rugby team.
Fisch says low testos
terone can cause cardiovascular problems down the road. It’s also linked to fatigue, depression, and decreased muscle mass. Here’s how Fisch writes about it in his book: “Men with levels below 300 ng/dl (a condition called hypogonadism) tend to have little interest in sex and are usually nonconfrontational, socially inhibited, and physically weak. They are also often very intellectual, creative, expressive, and likable.” The intellectual and creative part sounds good. The socially inhibited, not so much. “Men with higher-than-normal testosterone tend to be just the reverse: Obsessed with sex, competitive, aggressive, extroverted, physical and tending toward more action-oriented activities or careers.” A mix would be nice.
How’d my testosterone get into such a sorry state? Several factors play into it.
It’s partly genetic, of course. But your testosterone level drops when you get married. It drops again when you have kids. It drops every moment after your thirtieth birthday—men lose about 1 percent of testosterone a year. (Though estrogen increases, “which is why we get man boobs,” says Fisch.) It drops when you have too much fat, especially abdominal fat. (I’m still working off my stomach.) I also have a vein-related problem down below called “varicocele.”
The good news, says Fisch, is that there are natural ways to boost your T. First, a healthy diet: walnuts, salmon, whole grains, the usual suspects. I’ve been eating this way for months, so I can’t rely on that. Fisch says that moderate exercise helps. Extreme exercise doesn’t, which is why, according to Stanford professor Robert Sapolsky, professional soccer players have lower-than-average testosterone. I’ve been exercising moderately for months, so I have that covered.
“I once read that you can boost your testosterone just by holding a gun,” I tell Fisch.
“That’s true, but that’s just a temporary fix,” he says.
He says we should think bigger: supplements.
There’s a long history of men trying to turbocharge their testosterone. Even before scientists discovered the chemical testosterone, they knew that the testes had more than a little to do with manliness. In the 1920s, a French surgeon named Serge Voronoff made a fortune with his “rejuvenation” techniques, which were rather extreme. He grafted chimpanzee-testicle tissue onto the penises of men. He promised a longer life, a higher sex drive, and better eyesight. Another doctor offered the same procedure with goat testicles. You’d pick your goat, much like you pick your lobster at a restaurant today, writes Pope Brock in his book Charlatan. Amazingly, none of the animal transplants worked as promised.
