Resolutions; the point is? Less than two weeks in, I've broken every one of mine.
I said I'd eat less fat, but the husband is conspiring against me. When he arrives home, having raided the supermarket reduced shelf, with an oozing slab of Brie just about to pass its sell-by date (in other words, about to reach its peak of ripeness), it would be rude to refuse.
Not to mention downright impossible.
Ditto my pledge to drink less wine. He keeps on opening bottles to go with the cheese. And I keep emptying them. The fact that the recycling stash is already threatening to monopolise the kitchen (proof of yet another failed NYR to find a better (i.e. less visible) place to store old newspapers and glass for the fortnight before the collection truck arrives).
Boy, at home for an interminably long university Christmas break (all that money on fees and rent, and they're only there for 34 weeks of the year) has toasted my pledge to eat fewer carbs. Quite literally. I walk in from work (late - another res. dashed), catch a whiff of singed bread, one of the most irresistible aromas known to man, and HAVE to have a slice. Or two. Before tea.
I'm particularly vexed at this, as my step-sister has managed to get herself fabulously slender and sensational by cutting out all carbs after 6pm (apparently, this is what celebs like Jennifer Aniston have been doing for, like, always). But then, they've got their own chefs, who can whip egg whites and watercress into something amazing.
As for the step-sister, she's got it easy, too; her son is too young to reach the toaster.
And then there's the vow to go to bed earlier, the failure of which has had a knock-on effect on the resolve to get up earlier.
Thing is, life and all its admin gets in the way. There's always a load of washing I've forgotten to drape all over the radiators before I can go to bed. Or this ruddy column to make a start on.
Take Friday night, an NYR failure of monumental proportions. There was cheese, with crackers; there was wine - and my head didn't get onto its pillow til 2am because some goddamned thoughtless person at BBC 4 had decided to put the most amazingly epic, FOUR-hour Peter Bogdanovitch documentary about Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers on. With a starting time of 10.45pm. Clearly the GTP thinks all Petty fans are old hippies who stay awake til dawn and sleep during daylight.
Consequently, the vow to get more exercise at weekends bit the dust. Unless you count the mammoth, energy-expelling trying-on session in the Jaeger sale (which kind of nobbled the resolve to rein in my spending habit).
Oh, you're sick of my excuses, are you? You reckon I'm simply blaming everyone else for my own abject failure, my pitiful amount of will-power?
Ok then, it's all the Christmas tree's fault. Twelfth Night(s) came and went but the tree didn't and now I'm jinxed. Doomed to an entire year of carb-stuffing, wine-slurping sloth.
Got a view? Leave a comment below.
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