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Monday, 20 September 2010


You can fool some of the people some of the time. What amateurs. I can fool all of myself all of the time.

Oh Lordy, how good have I become at it!

I think nothing of enjoying a glass of bubbles while I'm getting ready for a big night out with the girls, or even Lover Bloke for that matter. Hell, I might even enjoy two or three. Because sometimes I take extra long with my eye makeup or my hair straightener.

But see, they don't count as part of my - what was that again Bridget Jones? Ah yes, daily alcohol units. It's only the bottle of wine that I down over a long long dinner that counts.

Now if I've been out to lunch and partaken of some wine while the bread was being broken, that doesn't really count either. That's just lunch. A few Chardys at lunch, back to work for a few hours, then home to my first drink of the day.

Or so I kid myself.

It seems almost sinful not to finish the bottle. After all I'm only going to drink the rest of it tomorrow so it's nothing more than efficiency that I finish it tonight.

The truth is a very heavy burden to carry. And I don't get to the gym nearly often enough to have the strength for it.

There's nothing wrong with drinking scotch. That's because I balance it out with by pouring soda water all over it.

Ending the night with a glass of Baileys is akin to having a mocha. It's sweet, smooth, mild coffee flavour, bit of chocolate, works well hot or cold - see the sort of trouble I get myself into?

That's because I kid myself that the double shot of Berocca I take the morning after clears me of all sins. Bless me Father, etc. And sets me up for the day to do it all again.

I spend a couple of days eating total and utter crap. Toast and peanut butter for breakfast, Dreamy Donuts at morning tea, something toasted with lots of cheese for lunch, a packet of chips, maybe a chocolate bar around 3pm, and then a massive pasta with the requisite bacon, mushroom and creamy sauce for dinner.

But I don't feel too bad because I've taken a multivitamin. Which purports to contain all the key ingredients to making me healthy and functional. Makes you wonder why nutritionists go on and on about eating salad.

I know I need to diet. Just even to lose that annoying 5kgs that forbids me from wearing some quite fabulous frocks and low-rise jeans that hang neglected at the back of my wardrobe.

But it's always tomorrow that I'll start. I can't today because there's either a work breastfast somewhere (ooh Eggs Benedict, yum!) dinner at my mother's (“eat up,” she says, “you’re a growing girl”. Did she not come to my 40th birthday party?) or a weekend in Sydney (too many fabulous places to eat). Perhaps tomorrow. Or next Monday.

I went through a phase where every Saturday morning circa 7am, I would present at the Rocklea Fresh Food Markets. I purchased a myriad of salad, vegetable and fruit items, all hand-picked by me and paid for in cash by me.

By 11am, I had it stored in the refrigerator somehow (sometimes by drinking that pesky bottle of wine that was blocking space). I didn't touch it for the rest of the weekend (I mean, who eats healthy stuff on the weekend; it's the weekend for goodness sake!) But Monday morning I would rise early and chop chop chop to make fresh juice, a salad for lunch and stir-fry vegies at the ready for dinner.

By Tuesday I would at least get the salad done. Wednesday, maybe juice. Thursday? Friday? Forget it. This means that on Saturday, I had to throw the whole rotting mess out to make room for the new wad of stuff I'd just purchased from the markets.

While my lips continue to move, and my brain continues to function, I guess I will continue to kid myself.

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