Depending on what time I’ve hauled my sorry ass out of bed on Boxing Day in the past has largely dictated whether I’ve woken up thinking about leftovers, or smelling them. I think it’s fair to say that both my son and I are fully-paid-up card-carrying members of the leftover Christmas food fan club, in fact I might even go as far as to say that between us we’ve probably regarded it as the highlight of Boxing Day.
I can recall more occasions than I’m comfortable admitting to where we’ve pitted our wits against each other in the ‘who gets to the leftover pigs in blankets first’ race, and I’m here to tell you that the sound of the microwave being activated downstairs in the kitchen on Boxing Day morning has historically invoked the kind of reaction that alarm clock manufacturers the world over could only dream about. You see, whoever gets to the tupperware first is in charge of allocation…otherwise known as who gets what. And if that’s not you, damn straight you’d better get there and supervise, so you get your fair share.
So, when my son found out that he had to work on Boxing Day this year, as you might imagine, he was more than a little bit pissed off. To be fair, he wasn’t worried about working as such, I mean why would he…there’s no contractual obligation to work so it’s triple time thank you very much. But jockeying for space with the dollar signs in his eyes was the vision of coming home to pillaged tupperware containing a stringy bit of turkey and the odd unwanted sprout. He was worried that I’d eat Boxing Day whilst his back was turned.
As we were bidding our respective goodnights last night before heading for bed I casually threw it out there that I wasn’t eating any leftovers this year…his face was a picture. The sort of face, I imagine, that you might see on a lottery winner, as the implication of picking those numbers sinks in…well, something close anyway. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll definitely join in with the turkey, that’s fine…but the crunchy butter-rich sage and onion stuffing balls, the leftover roasties and the crisped up pigs in blankets are all his this year. Although it near kills me to say it, they were yesterday’s treat.
You probably don’t need me to tell you that the asshole in my mind has almost combusted himself into an early grave by jumping up and down trying to change my mind. They’re behind me in the fridge as we speak, and they flirt with me every time I open the fridge door. On a scale of 1-10 I want them to the tune of at least 15, but I’m thinking instead about that size 22 top that I pledged my allegiance to when I got back from Vegas…I remain determined to fit into it on 1st January.
I can’t have both. And one is more important than the other…so I picked that one. And whilst the chatter from the tupperware tubs is driving me bat-shit crazy, I’m happy with my choice.
Today, Boxing Day or not, is the start of a new dieting week. I’m remembering how I worked out a plan to see me through our trip to Dublin, and Christmas, and I’m way beyond proud that I managed to stick to it…I’ve had to dig deep, but I’ve done it and trust me when I say if I could bottle this feeling and sell it, I could retire on the proceeds. And you know what else..? I’m 3lbs down since my last check-in with the bitch in the bathroom.
Epic 🙂
