I don’t know what the fuck happened and I know you’re going to hate me (I hate myself too, even if just a bit). I haven’t felt quite as fit as in the past, lately. Probably the change of lifestyle, a bit of depression, hormones, whatever: I had a belly. I could feel little rolls […]
I don’t know what the fuck happened and I know you’re going to hate me (I hate myself too, even if just a bit).
I haven’t felt quite as fit as in the past, lately. Probably the change of lifestyle, a bit of depression, hormones, whatever: I had a belly. I could feel little rolls of fat on my back when I was turning around to grab something. If you’re a friend you know this, because I’ve been harassing everybody with it.
I had a perfectly good explanation for this, all things considered and put aside: I’m not getting any younger and I have a less than healthy diet, with all my beers, the elaborate cooking of my beloved, my fixation for not having breakfast (breakfast is for debauchees: I don’t have time for breakfast). I had also given up smoking. I didn’t exactly quit, but since I don’t smoke in the house and I haven’t been out a lot, it just happened that I wasn’t smoking.
Anyway, I’ve always known that this time would come: I hate going to the gym but I can’t expect to keep avoiding it and reach old age in a decent state. Therefore, before leaving for my vacation, I went to a trainer and had the most hilarious chat I’ve ever had with a poor guy who’s just trying to do his job. My favorite part was when he asked me how many beers I drink in a week. I don’t have enough fingers to count them, darling. He gave me a training program, the address of a good exorcist and everything was good and fine.
Then I went on vacation.
And this is where things get weird.
I didn’t exercise. In fact, I avoided activities like the plague: you’ll see me hitting 500 pounds before you see me doing any aquagym. Just saying.
I didn’t even restrain myself that much when it comes to drinking: after the first couple of days without money for extras (it’s a long story), I had enough friends to buy me drinks.
So what happened?
One evening I was still having troubles squeezing inside the little white dress. A couple of evenings afterwards I had the most amazing slim fit I haven’t had in years.
If this doesn’t turn out to be some weird exotic disease, I’m patenting it right away.
The Piña Colada Diet.
Now let’s see if we can manage not to slip back.
Anybody fancies a drink?