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My 6-week journey to the land of thin By Kate Spicer...
What does it take for a normal woman to achieve size zero? In this graphic account of extreme
dieting, Kate Spicer reveals the revolting cost
What does it take for a normal woman to achieve size zero? In this graphic account of extreme
dieting, Kate Spicer reveals the revolting cost
A fascination with being thin is a defining part of this rapidly fattening age and
nothing exemplifies it better than the recent tumult in fashion and the media over
the size zero physique. A size zero is officially 31½-23-34 — little-boy statistics that
can be applied to some of the biggest red carpet names of the day. But the term
doesn’t bring to mind vital statistics; it has come to represent a state of
slenderness and richness that to most normal eyes looks like skin, bone,
expensive hair and lovely clothes.
Personally I don’t care too much about the debate in fashion. Models have always
been thin and while some have issues, generally the model’s body is an
extraordinary one: they are a gangly slender breed unto themselves. More
fascinating — and alarming — are the lengths other women will go to physically
and mentally to keep themselves well under their natural body weight; and the
extent to which most of them think their natural weight is essentially fat.
I am never quite satisfied with my body, but aside from largely healthy eating and
regular exercise I can’t be bothered to do much more about it. However, when I
was challenged to make a documentary about what it takes to attain the distinctive
anticurves of the size zero, I said yes.
These are the lowlights of my descent into starvation.
Week one
Am nicely fit, but a wee bit porky (just over 10 stone) after two weeks enjoying
death by cheese and ham skiing in France over Christmas. I face the new year
with the understanding that the next few weeks are going to be miserable. I will
follow a lifestyle that, for example, an actress or singer might adopt were they
getting ready for a red carpet event or a video shoot.
First up, the tried and tested master cleanse diet, a concoction of lemons, cayenne
pepper, maple syrup and spring water, used most famously recently by Beyoncé to
lose 20lb in 14 days. By all the stuff and go home to make up fiery, sweet, sour filth
that will be my sole nourishment. Within two days I know I cannot live on this stuff
while working. Am agitated, bored — so bored — and have a feeble attention
span. My legs might still look sturdy, but they struggle to climb stairs and my head
is light as a feather. At times I woozily weave rather than walk.
Leaving the steam room one evening after an ultra-short session at the gym (must
keep my metabolism up so that I continue to burn calories at a normal rate and not
at a slow starvation rate), I pass out and fall against the wall. A woman props me
up. “Sorry, I’m not eating much,” I say in a dizzy haze. She looks daggers: “Well
stay out of the gym then, you are a danger to more than yourself.”
I get home and try hard to focus on my ambition to have an x-ray-like body. I try to
enjoy the sensation of hunger, something I have heard women in the public eye
say and have also read on anorexia forums on the internet. Enjoying hunger is not
nourishing for me, and I eat 10 raisins, 10 nuts and a tablespoon of maple syrup
feeling weak-willed and guilty. I am going generally nuts.
Appropriately I start eating about 500 calories of nuts a day because my job is
impossible to do on the lemonade alone. My attention span improves — a bit. The
master cleanse book recommends doing the diet for a minimum of 10 days and a
maximum of 40, a state of affairs I find unimaginable.
Already I enjoy the feeling of emptiness in my body and every morning I encourage
more emptiness by drinking two pints of salty water to cleanse my bowel. The
effect is explosive. Obviously this isn’t healthy. I am also smoking a lot more.
So apart from making friends with all the people in the smoking room at work my
social life has taken a nose-dive. I turn up to dinners after everyone has eaten;
drink water, smoke, and go home exhausted by midnight. Call this life? However, a
surprising number of women, when I tell them why I am not eating, say they have
done the diet too and a strange sort of kinship over suffering is shared. Crazily it
seems I am not alone.
Week two
Haven’t seen my mum or granny for months. Mum asks me when I am coming
down. I tell her I won’t be coming home until this is over. Life in Devon revolves
around physical exertions and big noisy wine-fuelled meals finished off with sticky
nursery puddings. On this diet my happiest place is tucked up in bed alone,
stomach grinding with hunger, wrapped round a hot water bottle (I am always cold)
with some prescription-strength sleeping pills.
I have to fly to Miami to interview a Hollywood skinny. I cannot take fluids on the
plane, so no lemonade. I survive the 12-hour flight on a small bag of nuts and
some orange juice.
On arrival I go direct to the hotel to do the interview. I am now beside myself with
hunger — I feel like I am floating — and am chain-smoking to try and get my wits
together. While I wait for the actress at the hotel I eat some ham and raw
vegetables. I try to talk to the Hollywood skinny about weight issues; she goes off
the wall. Touchy!
After the interview I go for dinner and am so debilitated that I eat a small tuna
tartare and have two glasses of wine. Then I crack — that’s the wine — and order
some coconut cake. After a few mouthfuls I become hyper, like a kid after too many
sweeties, rambling excitedly about how sugar acts on the same neural pathways as
cocaine. Everyone stares — I am on a sugar high. My cheeks are flushed and my
speech is speedy. I feel happy.
The next day I get up and run for an hour and feel really fat. The truth is, the more
weight I lose, the fatter I feel and the more I want to lose weight. I lie in bed in the
mornings feeling my hipbones and wanting to feel them more. I want them to jut out.
When an old friend asks me how I am getting on I grumble about how stupid it all is
and say how sorry I feel for women who live out their lives in this state of privation.
She’s cynical. “I think you’re enjoying this,” she says, knowing me better than
myself at times. I secretly agree with her.
Week three
My boobs and arse are flat as pancakes, though the former specifically look awful.
During the diet a male friend grabbed my bum and said “Yuck” because it was so
lifelessly flat. When I get back to the UK I have to go for my weekly weigh-in and
check-up with Dr Le Roux, the metabolic physician at Imperial College London who
is managing my health. The weekend in Miami has screwed up my extreme diet.
The thought that I may have put on weight is stressing me out. Obsessive dieters
need routine, or a personal chef with them at all times. I feel bloated and guilty. My
mind is warped and I have arrived at planet thin where all that really matters —
forget art, literature, intelligence, love, family, career — is getting thinner. I am food
phobic and can’t stop thinking about sex. A girl needs some kind of sensory
pleasure in life, and sex and smoking are the only ones left.
What a strange life, thinking about food all the time but eating none. And when I
do, such guilt. I buy some laxatives, which is stupid given that I go straight from
Heathrow to a detox retreat in Kettering where I will have daily colonics and
consume nothing apart from fruit juice. But then I am becoming very stupid.
The laxatives give me cramps and I arrive at the Homefield Grange retreat tired,
agitated and in pain. For the next five days I will have regular enemas. I also —
against the wishes of the supervisor there — force myself to train twice a day, a
normal activity for the weight-loss obsessive. I ignore almost all phone calls, even
from close family and friends. I cannot concentrate on books so, in between the
training and the colonics, I watch garbage television and read trashy magazines by
day and long into the night because the hunger keeps me awake.
But when Dr Le Roux weighs me and I’ve lost more than a stone in three weeks, all
that weirdness and suffering turns to elation. I love my increasing slimness. You
can wear anything you want, you look great in photos; put on heels and your legs
look like something out of a fashion magazine. I feel a peculiar sense of power and
control, and an air of aloof removal from other women.
Against my sisterly instincts I have started judging other women’s bodies against
my own, ruthlessly, from their ankles to their chins, which is clearly menacing. But
as my entire life has been seized by this body-driven self-validation it doesn’t
bother my conscience as it should.
Nothing much great is happening anywhere else in my life: my work output is
intermittent as I can’t concentrate, socially everything is a drag, family life is a
nono. My biggest excitements are the steam room at the gym, smoking and of
course shopping — fashion is made for women of my physical proportions.
No fear that I frequently feel on the verge of tears. Not to worry that meeting men is
harder without a drink in your hand, because if I keep this up I’ll be a trophy-wife
weight, I’ll be the sort of thin that a certain type of man likes to buy into as he would
a flash car. And with the obsessive shopping and debilitated mental capacities for
intellectual combat, I’ll fit the brief perfectly.
I am suckered into the miserably compromised life of the artificially skinny. Yes, it’s
a pain in my nonexistent arse not eating much. It requires a lot of concentration
and you need to disconnect from certain
Week four
Stupidly, on my weekly visit to Dr Le Roux, I tell him about the laxatives and he
immediately sends me to a psychiatrist. After a cold hour of being grilled, the
psychiatrist says I have the potential to develop bulimia and I am told to start
eating normally.
I am beside myself with anger. I have left work now and for the final month had
planned to dedicate myself to getting down to a revoltingly thin state. Partly to see
the experiment through; partly because this was something I really wanted to do. I
wanted to know what it felt like to be as thin as a properly thin person. It’s true that
the anorexic state is a cry for help — am I participating in this specific
psychopathology? Too right.
With not much work to do I could really concentrate. I had found a personal trainer
to help me find that rail-like state. I would train hard twice a day while eating only
1,500 calories, I’d sleep in clingfilm, sweating like mad. He planned to train me as
you would a boxer or a jockey getting ready for competition. And in between all I’d
do is sleep. But instead I am told to “eat normally”.
Week five
Eating normally? Forget it. My mind is not my own any more and what follows is up
there with the worst weeks of my life. I have to go to the Alps for work. The story isn’
t going well and I’m stressed. Under stress, when I need to write, I often eat. It’s not
cool,I don’t like it, but I do. I am terrified and confused. My body is hungry, but I am
continuing to try and control my eating. The consequence of this is bingeing. I
binge and then stick my fingers down my throat — twice. Is ita shrink-fulfilling
prophecy? All I want is to be thin. I am unhappy.
I go back to Homefield Grange with two friends for the weekend, raving about its
weight-loss benefits. I tell them matter of factly about the bingeing and purging,
thinking that this is normal. When they both express shock, I feel a sense of
isolation and shame. Their shock makes me realise quite how silly things have
become.
And it is totally within my power to sort my head out, but I don’t want to. Dealing
with it will mean putting on weight. We flick through Heat, The People, Hello!. There
is no diversion from slim women, including Nicole Richie, being presented as
successful who are clearly living their lives in the ravages of eating disorders. I
spend the rest of the weekend reading books about eating disorders. My intellect
is starting to fight back against my misguided, hunger-fuelled, bizarre idea of vanity.
Week six
I want my eating to return to normal. Bingeing is distressing to mind, body and
soul. And as soon as my eating becomes more normal my human relationships
become simpler, and I steadily feel happier and calmer. Nonethe-less I feel a
failure and I still think my legs look chubby. I weigh about 9 stone. Most of the thin
girls in gossip rags are probably 8 stone or less.
Even though my head was a mess my female friends all thought I looked great
when I was at my thinnest. The cult of thin is a powerful one and, truth be told, if I
didn’t have to workI could imagine almost enjoying getting into it. In certain pockets
of society everyone thinks natural body weight is fat. If you are a perfectionist, as I
and many other marginally successful women are, you fit the psychopathology
brief for eating disorders. At the weekly weigh-ins with Dr Le Roux, I made him put
a piece of card on the scales so that I didn’t obsess about numbers. What I went
through is all too familiar to him.
The pursuit of thinness is a way of channelling every emotional energy into one
ambition; it is a way of losing yourself in one problem — weight loss — and
ignoring all the other issues in your life. Almost all women want to be thinner. When
a woman feels low, or challenged by life, sometimes any excess flesh feels literally
like the embodiment of their perceived weakness. Control around food is seen asa
sign of intelligence and restraint. It’sa seductive and all-consuming addiction when
the figures on the scales are a simple, if nutty, method of measuring your success
as a human being.
Super-Skinny Me: The Race to Size Zero, is on Channel 4, April 22 watch it here.
nothing exemplifies it better than the recent tumult in fashion and the media over
the size zero physique. A size zero is officially 31½-23-34 — little-boy statistics that
can be applied to some of the biggest red carpet names of the day. But the term
doesn’t bring to mind vital statistics; it has come to represent a state of
slenderness and richness that to most normal eyes looks like skin, bone,
expensive hair and lovely clothes.
Personally I don’t care too much about the debate in fashion. Models have always
been thin and while some have issues, generally the model’s body is an
extraordinary one: they are a gangly slender breed unto themselves. More
fascinating — and alarming — are the lengths other women will go to physically
and mentally to keep themselves well under their natural body weight; and the
extent to which most of them think their natural weight is essentially fat.
I am never quite satisfied with my body, but aside from largely healthy eating and
regular exercise I can’t be bothered to do much more about it. However, when I
was challenged to make a documentary about what it takes to attain the distinctive
anticurves of the size zero, I said yes.
These are the lowlights of my descent into starvation.
Week one
Am nicely fit, but a wee bit porky (just over 10 stone) after two weeks enjoying
death by cheese and ham skiing in France over Christmas. I face the new year
with the understanding that the next few weeks are going to be miserable. I will
follow a lifestyle that, for example, an actress or singer might adopt were they
getting ready for a red carpet event or a video shoot.
First up, the tried and tested master cleanse diet, a concoction of lemons, cayenne
pepper, maple syrup and spring water, used most famously recently by Beyoncé to
lose 20lb in 14 days. By all the stuff and go home to make up fiery, sweet, sour filth
that will be my sole nourishment. Within two days I know I cannot live on this stuff
while working. Am agitated, bored — so bored — and have a feeble attention
span. My legs might still look sturdy, but they struggle to climb stairs and my head
is light as a feather. At times I woozily weave rather than walk.
Leaving the steam room one evening after an ultra-short session at the gym (must
keep my metabolism up so that I continue to burn calories at a normal rate and not
at a slow starvation rate), I pass out and fall against the wall. A woman props me
up. “Sorry, I’m not eating much,” I say in a dizzy haze. She looks daggers: “Well
stay out of the gym then, you are a danger to more than yourself.”
I get home and try hard to focus on my ambition to have an x-ray-like body. I try to
enjoy the sensation of hunger, something I have heard women in the public eye
say and have also read on anorexia forums on the internet. Enjoying hunger is not
nourishing for me, and I eat 10 raisins, 10 nuts and a tablespoon of maple syrup
feeling weak-willed and guilty. I am going generally nuts.
Appropriately I start eating about 500 calories of nuts a day because my job is
impossible to do on the lemonade alone. My attention span improves — a bit. The
master cleanse book recommends doing the diet for a minimum of 10 days and a
maximum of 40, a state of affairs I find unimaginable.
Already I enjoy the feeling of emptiness in my body and every morning I encourage
more emptiness by drinking two pints of salty water to cleanse my bowel. The
effect is explosive. Obviously this isn’t healthy. I am also smoking a lot more.
So apart from making friends with all the people in the smoking room at work my
social life has taken a nose-dive. I turn up to dinners after everyone has eaten;
drink water, smoke, and go home exhausted by midnight. Call this life? However, a
surprising number of women, when I tell them why I am not eating, say they have
done the diet too and a strange sort of kinship over suffering is shared. Crazily it
seems I am not alone.
Week two
Haven’t seen my mum or granny for months. Mum asks me when I am coming
down. I tell her I won’t be coming home until this is over. Life in Devon revolves
around physical exertions and big noisy wine-fuelled meals finished off with sticky
nursery puddings. On this diet my happiest place is tucked up in bed alone,
stomach grinding with hunger, wrapped round a hot water bottle (I am always cold)
with some prescription-strength sleeping pills.
I have to fly to Miami to interview a Hollywood skinny. I cannot take fluids on the
plane, so no lemonade. I survive the 12-hour flight on a small bag of nuts and
some orange juice.
On arrival I go direct to the hotel to do the interview. I am now beside myself with
hunger — I feel like I am floating — and am chain-smoking to try and get my wits
together. While I wait for the actress at the hotel I eat some ham and raw
vegetables. I try to talk to the Hollywood skinny about weight issues; she goes off
the wall. Touchy!
After the interview I go for dinner and am so debilitated that I eat a small tuna
tartare and have two glasses of wine. Then I crack — that’s the wine — and order
some coconut cake. After a few mouthfuls I become hyper, like a kid after too many
sweeties, rambling excitedly about how sugar acts on the same neural pathways as
cocaine. Everyone stares — I am on a sugar high. My cheeks are flushed and my
speech is speedy. I feel happy.
The next day I get up and run for an hour and feel really fat. The truth is, the more
weight I lose, the fatter I feel and the more I want to lose weight. I lie in bed in the
mornings feeling my hipbones and wanting to feel them more. I want them to jut out.
When an old friend asks me how I am getting on I grumble about how stupid it all is
and say how sorry I feel for women who live out their lives in this state of privation.
She’s cynical. “I think you’re enjoying this,” she says, knowing me better than
myself at times. I secretly agree with her.
Week three
My boobs and arse are flat as pancakes, though the former specifically look awful.
During the diet a male friend grabbed my bum and said “Yuck” because it was so
lifelessly flat. When I get back to the UK I have to go for my weekly weigh-in and
check-up with Dr Le Roux, the metabolic physician at Imperial College London who
is managing my health. The weekend in Miami has screwed up my extreme diet.
The thought that I may have put on weight is stressing me out. Obsessive dieters
need routine, or a personal chef with them at all times. I feel bloated and guilty. My
mind is warped and I have arrived at planet thin where all that really matters —
forget art, literature, intelligence, love, family, career — is getting thinner. I am food
phobic and can’t stop thinking about sex. A girl needs some kind of sensory
pleasure in life, and sex and smoking are the only ones left.
What a strange life, thinking about food all the time but eating none. And when I
do, such guilt. I buy some laxatives, which is stupid given that I go straight from
Heathrow to a detox retreat in Kettering where I will have daily colonics and
consume nothing apart from fruit juice. But then I am becoming very stupid.
The laxatives give me cramps and I arrive at the Homefield Grange retreat tired,
agitated and in pain. For the next five days I will have regular enemas. I also —
against the wishes of the supervisor there — force myself to train twice a day, a
normal activity for the weight-loss obsessive. I ignore almost all phone calls, even
from close family and friends. I cannot concentrate on books so, in between the
training and the colonics, I watch garbage television and read trashy magazines by
day and long into the night because the hunger keeps me awake.
But when Dr Le Roux weighs me and I’ve lost more than a stone in three weeks, all
that weirdness and suffering turns to elation. I love my increasing slimness. You
can wear anything you want, you look great in photos; put on heels and your legs
look like something out of a fashion magazine. I feel a peculiar sense of power and
control, and an air of aloof removal from other women.
Against my sisterly instincts I have started judging other women’s bodies against
my own, ruthlessly, from their ankles to their chins, which is clearly menacing. But
as my entire life has been seized by this body-driven self-validation it doesn’t
bother my conscience as it should.
Nothing much great is happening anywhere else in my life: my work output is
intermittent as I can’t concentrate, socially everything is a drag, family life is a
nono. My biggest excitements are the steam room at the gym, smoking and of
course shopping — fashion is made for women of my physical proportions.
No fear that I frequently feel on the verge of tears. Not to worry that meeting men is
harder without a drink in your hand, because if I keep this up I’ll be a trophy-wife
weight, I’ll be the sort of thin that a certain type of man likes to buy into as he would
a flash car. And with the obsessive shopping and debilitated mental capacities for
intellectual combat, I’ll fit the brief perfectly.
I am suckered into the miserably compromised life of the artificially skinny. Yes, it’s
a pain in my nonexistent arse not eating much. It requires a lot of concentration
and you need to disconnect from certain
Week four
Stupidly, on my weekly visit to Dr Le Roux, I tell him about the laxatives and he
immediately sends me to a psychiatrist. After a cold hour of being grilled, the
psychiatrist says I have the potential to develop bulimia and I am told to start
eating normally.
I am beside myself with anger. I have left work now and for the final month had
planned to dedicate myself to getting down to a revoltingly thin state. Partly to see
the experiment through; partly because this was something I really wanted to do. I
wanted to know what it felt like to be as thin as a properly thin person. It’s true that
the anorexic state is a cry for help — am I participating in this specific
psychopathology? Too right.
With not much work to do I could really concentrate. I had found a personal trainer
to help me find that rail-like state. I would train hard twice a day while eating only
1,500 calories, I’d sleep in clingfilm, sweating like mad. He planned to train me as
you would a boxer or a jockey getting ready for competition. And in between all I’d
do is sleep. But instead I am told to “eat normally”.
Week five
Eating normally? Forget it. My mind is not my own any more and what follows is up
there with the worst weeks of my life. I have to go to the Alps for work. The story isn’
t going well and I’m stressed. Under stress, when I need to write, I often eat. It’s not
cool,I don’t like it, but I do. I am terrified and confused. My body is hungry, but I am
continuing to try and control my eating. The consequence of this is bingeing. I
binge and then stick my fingers down my throat — twice. Is ita shrink-fulfilling
prophecy? All I want is to be thin. I am unhappy.
I go back to Homefield Grange with two friends for the weekend, raving about its
weight-loss benefits. I tell them matter of factly about the bingeing and purging,
thinking that this is normal. When they both express shock, I feel a sense of
isolation and shame. Their shock makes me realise quite how silly things have
become.
And it is totally within my power to sort my head out, but I don’t want to. Dealing
with it will mean putting on weight. We flick through Heat, The People, Hello!. There
is no diversion from slim women, including Nicole Richie, being presented as
successful who are clearly living their lives in the ravages of eating disorders. I
spend the rest of the weekend reading books about eating disorders. My intellect
is starting to fight back against my misguided, hunger-fuelled, bizarre idea of vanity.
Week six
I want my eating to return to normal. Bingeing is distressing to mind, body and
soul. And as soon as my eating becomes more normal my human relationships
become simpler, and I steadily feel happier and calmer. Nonethe-less I feel a
failure and I still think my legs look chubby. I weigh about 9 stone. Most of the thin
girls in gossip rags are probably 8 stone or less.
Even though my head was a mess my female friends all thought I looked great
when I was at my thinnest. The cult of thin is a powerful one and, truth be told, if I
didn’t have to workI could imagine almost enjoying getting into it. In certain pockets
of society everyone thinks natural body weight is fat. If you are a perfectionist, as I
and many other marginally successful women are, you fit the psychopathology
brief for eating disorders. At the weekly weigh-ins with Dr Le Roux, I made him put
a piece of card on the scales so that I didn’t obsess about numbers. What I went
through is all too familiar to him.
The pursuit of thinness is a way of channelling every emotional energy into one
ambition; it is a way of losing yourself in one problem — weight loss — and
ignoring all the other issues in your life. Almost all women want to be thinner. When
a woman feels low, or challenged by life, sometimes any excess flesh feels literally
like the embodiment of their perceived weakness. Control around food is seen asa
sign of intelligence and restraint. It’sa seductive and all-consuming addiction when
the figures on the scales are a simple, if nutty, method of measuring your success
as a human being.
Super-Skinny Me: The Race to Size Zero, is on Channel 4, April 22 watch it here.
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SciFit's ProCuts Ephedra Free™ is an all natural formulation designed to enhance energy, boost metabolism, and help eliminate excess
water beneath the skin. Each serving is enhanced with 500 mg of Green Tea Extract.
Fat Burner Plus: Stimulant Free
Sci Fit`s Fat Burner Plus is an advanced fat metabolizing formula. Fat Burner Plus contains precise ratios of the following: HCA,L-
Carnitine, Uva Ursi, Dandelion, Choline, Inotitol, Vitamin B-6 and Chromium Picoluinate.
Fat Burner Plus is enhanced with the increasingly researched Hydrocitric Acid (HCA) which is the active ingredient extracted from Garcinia
Cambosia.
HCA is also touted as a natural appetite suppressant.
The amino acid L-Carnitine is the primary mechanism for fat transport into the micochondria of the cell to be burned for fuel. L-Carnitine
has been shown to not only have a positive effect of fat metabolism,but also on endurance and stamina.
The herbs Uva Ursi and Dandelion act as potent water reducing agents. (diuretics). Dandelion serves a double benefit in that not only is it
an excellent natural diuretic,but it also is a rich source of the mineral potassium. When taking a synthetic diuretic the loss of potassium
can be a major concern.
Chromium Picolinate`s primary function in the body is to act as a coenzyme of insulin. Proper insulin function is essential for proper fat
and protein metabolism. SciFit's Sleep-N-Tight™ is a synergistic combination of nutrients designed to promote a restful nights sleep
while enhancing the metabolism.
The Inside Scoop:
Affordable Fat Release Program Fat Burner 3-Pack
Ingredient Details:
Fat Burner Plus:
Serving Size: 2 capsules
Servings Per Container: - 60
Garcinia Cambogia - 500 mg, Uva Ursi - 200 mg, Dandelion - 200 mg, L-Carnitine - 100 mg, Choline - 100 mg, Inositol -100 mg, Vitamin
B6 - 50 mg, Chromium Picolinate - 200 mcg
ProCuts Ephedra Free:
Serving Size: 4 Capsules
Servings Per Container: - 60
Garcinia Cambogia - 1000 mg, Green Tea Extract - 500 mg, Guarana Extract - 910 mg, Caffeine - 100 mg, L-Carnitine - 100 mg, White
Willow Bar - 100 mg, Dandelion Root - 100 mg, Juniper Berry Extract - 100 mg, Buchu Extract - 100 mg, Chrominum - 200 mcg, Other
ngredients: Magnesium Stearate, Gelatin.
Sleep-N-Tight
Serving Size: 2 capsules
Servings Per Container: - 30
GABA - 300 mg, Mucuna Pruriens - 200 mg, Valerian Root Extract - 200 mg, St. John's Wort Extract - 200 mg, Passion Flower Extract 4:1 -
200 mg, Chamomile Extract 4:1 - 200mg, L-Carnitine Tartrate - 200 mg, 3b-Acetoxyandrost-5-ene-7, 17-Dione - 150 mg, 5-Hydroxy
Tryptophan - 50 mg, Melatonin - 3 mg, 3,5-Diiodo-L-Tyrosine - 200 mcg,...
Suggested Use:
As an adult dietary supplement, take 1 serving of ProCuts in the morning, 30 minutes prior to lunch take 1 serving of Fat Burner Plus, and
1 serving of Sleep-N-Tight before bed.
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