Fuck.

Fuckety Fuck.

Well that didn’t quite go as planned, did it? Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had a ball, in fact it’s probably one of my favourite cruise holidays ever. I’m more relaxed than I can remember being for a very long time, and that’s exactly what I needed . The problem is I appear to have returned home with an extra arse, and that definitely wasn’t part of the plan.

In the spirit of full disclosure, the week before I went away did not go well at all. I was on the diet, off the diet, desperately trying to keep my feet planted in that middle ground between between feast and famine, but failing miserably. The Asshole voice was the one I listened to most of the time, which is unfortunate given that he spent all week running his mouth about how I should allow myself to relax, and empty my mind of everything except having a good time. Do as I please, and start again when I got back…you know the score.

The thing is, it’s the message I wanted to hear. So my ears were on full alert and assisted in filtering out any kind of opposing argument. Without even putting up a fight, I leaped headlong into food fuckery, where I remained until yesterday. I became really good at swallowing down the voice of reason alongside whatever I happened to be shovelling into my gob at the time, and I conspired with myself to make sure there was no audible voice to prick my conscience.

I meant it when I said I’d start each day with a light breakfast. That was absolutely the plan. Execution of said plan however…well, that’s where it all went to shit. The day after we sailed, I justified my full English breakfast on the basis that it was Sunday. On Monday I justified it by promising myself I’d call it brunch and eat nothing else until dinner that night…yeh, well it doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to predict how that worked out, right? I was back in that buffet line as soon as it opened for the business of lunch.

And so the week went on. Matters weren’t helped by the presence of the gin bar on board the ship, which in no small measure contributed to the devil-may-care-but-I-don’t attitude which wormed it’s way into my psyche and formed the blueprint of our holiday.

I’m not a drinker, in fact I’ve barely had a drink since my last holiday in June. There’s been one prosecco-filled Saturday evening I think since then, but in the last week as we’ve kicked back and relaxed on the balcony I’ve sunk a bottle of rhubarb & ginger gin liqueur and a bottle of Baileys.

So. Yesterday. As I walked the green mile to the Shitbird Scale I could hear that bloke from the X-Factor and his overly dramatic music playing on a loop in my head. IT’S TIME. TO FACE. THE MUSIC…which brings me right back to where I started, at fuckety fucking fuck.

Eating like my life depended on it has been an exhilarating blessed relief from the daily grind of counting, measuring, weighing, worrying about what goes in my mouth. I wish I could live like that all the time, you know? In my head, that’s what paradise looks like. Maybe it’s one of the reasons I’ve enjoyed the week so much, right? And I can’t moan about the fact that I’ve put weight on. With every slug of Baileys and every petit-four with coffee after a six-course dinner, or every groaning buffet plate or full breakfast I threw open the door and ushered pound after pound into my pants. I’m not blaming the gin, or the Baileys or even the Asshole voice…me, I did it. And it was paradise, whilst it lasted.

It just can’t last any longer.

Yesterday wasn’t paradise, but it was my life and I was happy to slip back into it. I got up, got weighed, recorded it and went for a swim. I weighed, measured and counted. I shopped for the kind of food I eat, walked past the stuff I don’t eat and went about living the life I choose for the long term. Once I’ve dealt with the aftermath of living in paradise for a week or two, I’ll be grand.

It’s good to be home…how’ve y’all been? 🙂

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