Will a mug of hot lemon water solve all my problems?
March 28, 2016 Ashley 0 Comments
“Ah… they don’t have my green tea,” I complained out loud.
“You know what’s really good?” my friend inquireplied (yes, that’s a word I just made up).
“What?” I exasperatedly asked.
“Just a mug of warm water with lemon.”
Despite the look of incredulity I delivered her (how the eff was citrus in hot agua possibly gonna suffice?), I gave it a try. It was either that, boring room temp tap, or the series of spirits they offered here in this karaoke bar. And I don’t imbibe. (Though it was fun watching others do so. And then step on a stage. And make noises like something sentient being skinned alive.) Plus, when she started telling me about all these detoxifying, tummy healing, health benefits, my intrigue was immediately piqued. Jumpcut to nearly a year later now, and it’s officially become my runner up for beverage choices.
(Yes, mine looks exactly like that… Not some mug filled with macerated, finger pulverized yellow wedges surrounded by seeds bobbing around helplessly, begging for rescue. Definitely this flowery photo op instead.)
However, I am started to see some opposition from the Bobby Buzzkills of the world lately.
These mofos are try’na stifle my health high by playing devil’s advocate.
But I’m openminded. So I’m open to asking: is lemon juice really doing anything for us?
Or is it a waste of time?
See, the main claims being countered are the ones about it improving digestion and detoxing your body. Mostly because there’s not a ton of proof about it improving intestinal ongoings. But also because too much of the stuff can hamper your gastric atmosphere. (But, duh – doesn’t the “too much of a good thing” rule go for anything? Even an E-tard could tell you that too much plain water’ll kill you.)
Then, the second debatable topic’s detox.
Can lemon water – hot or not – really clean up your toxin processing organs?
(Protip: if you’ve spent most your life having an ABC instead’ve of BAC, then no, nada’s gonna detox your system, save for setting down the flask.)
Because lemons have something in it called D-limonene. What is it? An anti-oxidant. And what’s it do? It kicks liver enzymes into gear for the first couple’ve phases of the detox process. And what happens in those processes is that said enzymes convert compounds loitering in your liver (which we dub “toxins” ’cause they’re technically toxic to cells) and break ’em down into benign versions of themselves. And what exactly are these toxic critters the D-limonenes destroying? Anything from caffeine to pain killers. The only problem is, you can’t technically tell anyone that chugging the blood of a golden football fruit’s gonna do that for you. Because according to some reports, it takes about 500 mg to accomplish that (which translates to roughly 5 liters of the stuff.)
So… what’s this all mean?
Honestly? Not much for me. Or, you, really.
I kinda find these naysayer articles to be next level insufferable.
(Yes, that too. Ain’t nobody gonna grab my lemons from me.)
No, a mug of hot lemon water’s not gonna solve all my probs. But it’s definitely not one of my problems… and it does fix some of ’em. So I don’t exactly get why we’re dissing this exquisite elixir. Sure, too much of the stuff might stymie the proper pH balance in your belly. And, sure, you’d have to drink 10 Aquafina bottles worth off it to get the benefits of those liver cleansing enzymes. But, you know what? If you’re already eating clean like I do (and not gobbling down goblets of grog or pharmaceuticals so often that you need to worry about liver fixing in the first place), then guess what? You’re not sipping citrus as a means of damage control. Which means all its original awesomery remains intact. For examp: the fact that it’s still a fab source of vitamin C and potassium (respectively anti-stressors and augmenters of heart, brain, and nerve function). It’s still a fantastic palate cleanser that makes for grade A limpid skin.
Oh, and it’s also still an excellent bev to enjoy while you’re watching folk act a fool at karaoke.
So, don’t let these bored, miserable writers leave a tart taste in your mouth about steamy sour juice.
’cause I can bet it tastes better than their haterade.