How to Lose 5 Pounds in One Day (Without Joining a Cult or Pyramid Scheme)
💩 A medically supervised miracle brought to you by the American healthcare system and a gallon of lemon-lime MiraLAX slurry.
I write tutorials for a living. That’s right. Tutorials. They follow a beautiful, sterile structure:
Overview
Prerequisites
Step 1
Rub your eyes
Step 2
Regret all your life choices
Step 3
Acceptance
Conclusion (optional)
So naturally, as someone who’s barely holding it together physically, emotionally, and fiber-wise, I thought: Why not turn my recent colonoscopy experience into a helpful little walkthrough?
This post isn’t just a tutorial. It’s a FULL GASTROINTESTINAL RESET FOR YOUR SOUL.
Just in time for the holidays.
Because if you’re going to sit through Uncle Bob’s MAGA rants and Uncle Fae’s anarcho-communist poetry readings, your bowels better be clean and your conscience clear.
🧻 Overview
I worked in healthcare when the Affordable Care Act was passed. I remember meetings. The panic. The excitement. The PowerPoint slides. The lack of meeting snacks.
The biggest takeaways?
Preventive care is covered.
Pre-existing conditions won’t screw you anymore.
Listen, man. Now that I’m 45 years old, and this is true, I have a back like a haunted accordion and a heart that occasionally tries to river dance in my chest (PVCs, thanks for asking).
And that, dear reader, is why I scheduled the most preventative of preventatives: a colonoscopy.
Nothing says HAPPY BIRTHDAY like medically induced diarrhea.
✅ Prerequisites
45 rotations around the sun.
Willingness to talk to make a phone call.
Ability to follow instructions while hungry and cranky.
$8.99 MiraLAX from Walgreens.
Immediate, repeated access to a toilet.
🗓️ Step 1: Make the appointment
This is the hardest part. Not because it’s difficult, but because it’s EMOTIONAL CROSSFIT.
Look up the phone number.
Dial the number.
Don’t panic when a human answers.
Say words like, “Hi, I need to schedule a colonoscopy.”
Feel exposed. Vulnerable. Seen. (Think about that last podcast you listened to with Brené Brown.)
Choose a date. Put it on your calendar.
Immediately lie down and disassociate for several hours. You earned it.
📩 Step 2: Get the instructions
Check your inbox. Maybe the other one. Oh, that one you didn’t make in college.
Open the PDF.
Read the instructions.
Immediately forget them.
Print them and tape them to your wall like you’re solving a murder.
Realize that Halloween will fall on your low-fiber prep diet day.
Mourn the loss of Snickers.
Start whispering “No nuts, no seeds” like it’s a sacred mantra.
🛒 Step 3: Buy the poop gear
Go to Walgreens. Wander like a haunted librarian.
Find the braces and review all the options for your wrist.
Pick up a sturdy wrist brace for the left hand because you’re still recovering from blocking your kid’s soccer shot.
As you walk down the aisle, realize the top of the box is torn.
Go get the box behind it.
Don’t check if it’s also for the left hand.
Find the laxatives aisle and feel judged by the Metamucil.
Take your purchases to the front: MiraLAX, laxative pills, and the wrist brace.
Go home.
Put the prep supplies on the counter like you’re summoning a demon.
Try on the brace. Realize it’s for your other hand. Scream internally.
🥗 Step 4: Stop eating fiber and start questioning life
Three days out: no nuts, no beans, no raw veggies.
Suddenly crave nothing BUT those things.
Two days out: go hiking. You feel wild and free.
Eat your Last Supper at 6:59 p.m.
Now begins the fast. And the sadness.
You’re on clear liquids now. Which is a fun way of saying “juice and Jello but no joy.”
🍋 Step 5: Begin the flood
Get up the day before the procedure and indulge in apple juice and bone broth.
Make a vegan gelatin dish and toss (but don’t eat) a Caesar’s salad.
Mix the MiraLAX with lemon-lime electrolyte powder.
Stare in awe at the amount of liquid you think you're going to put into your stomach today.
Get everyone in the car and drive an hour south to your friend’s house.
Greet old college buddies gathered for caramel apple making.
Put your MiraLAX in friend’s fridge.
At 5:00 p.m. on the dot, get the drink out and pour your first 8 ounces into your glass.
Drink it like it’s swamp water blessed by Gwyneth Paltrow.
Wait ten minutes.
The cleansing begins.
Poop at your friend’s house.
Poop respectfully. Use Poo~Pourri. Check the underside of the seat. Be better than the world expects of you.
Poop until your soul leaves your body and texts you: “You okay?”
Keep enjoying glasses of MiraLAX.
Almost attempt to dance along to KPop Demon Hunters music.
Pop in and out of the bathroom while kids decorate apples.
Drive home. Continue pooping.
Sleep? Sure.
Set an alarm for your 4:00 a.m. poop cocktail.
Wake up, drink, poop, kids ready for school, poop. You are now 93% electrolyte beverage.
🏥 Step 6: Appointment Day
Shower. (You must.)
Weigh yourself. You are five pounds lighter and spiritually hollow.
Arrive. Gown up. Lay down. (Son sends nice text saying, “butt scan time.” He’s thinking of you.)
Note how the oxygen canula stings in one nostril. Consider blogging about it.
Anesthesiologist says, “Night, night.”
You are finally at peace.
🌅 Step 7: Rise again
Wake up groggy and confused.
Nurse asks if you want a wheelchair. You take her arm and walk to the elevator.
🚗 Step 8: Return to society
Your driver (thanks, spouse) takes you home.
You eat. A lot.
The 5 pounds return like prodigal sons.
The doctor removed one tiny polyp. You are victorious.
Also, you’re on your period. Because of course you are.
🧠 Final thoughts from your favorite tutorial writer
Colonoscopy prep is an abstract injury with very concrete consequences.
Yes, it’s absurd.
A bit disgusting.
It makes you question every choice you’ve made since 1987.
But also?
It’s free (thank you, ACA).
It prevents cancer.
And it gives you a license to be extremely dramatic about pooping, which is honestly a gift.
Go forth. Get scoped.
Be the change you want to see in your digestive tract.
😂😂😂🤣🤣😂😂🤣🤣😆😆😆😂