christmas
I was standing in the kitchen preparing a delicious meal of fresh veggies and chicken for my family, when I glanced behind me at the calendar in shock horror, I stepped over to it and stared down at the date: November 30.
A single tear fell.
Tomorrow is December. (I am well aware that it’s now February)

The feeling was fear and disgust. I knew what this meant, this meant pimples, this meant bloat, this meant excessive delightful food consumption.
December was coming. December means Christmas, December means parties coming out of my face, Parties mean snacks, parties mean party, par-tay.

December means yuck.

I’m kind of an active person, I have 3 children in this house and all of them make some kind of mess that will have you say at least once a day “Why on earth did you do that?” Or “How on earth did you get that poo on there?”.
I get most of my fitness from cleaning up wee off the toilet floor every day, I mean I am pretty much doing a squat or a lunge every time right? Is that to what I owe my buns?
I occasionally/not often will do some kind of work-out with a friend which ends in us both sitting down with some kind of snack, chatting and while delicious, much like December, it doesn’t do much for my self image, taking no care of my body means sad self image.

When you eat well for more than two days a week, you tend to maintain this cosy amount of happiness because you tried to look after yourself.  You tried really really hard to eat well all last week and it pays you off the next week with this accomplished feeling, you feel mentally and physically better about yourself. You let that two day’s of good eating define your week because you “Ate good that one day” and that’s what matters. You walked to the shops that week at least once, so that makes it like three days of exercise and good eating right? Three days out of 365 days, not too shabby.

But then December came. It rained and it shits on your parade. December came and brought Ham. December brought entire bowls full of chocolates and crisps. December brought wine, bacon and eggs for breakfast and Tim Tams. December brought enough trans fats and sugars to make my butt cry. It’s crying now, my butt, my insides are crying and my arteries are crying. I think maybe even my soul is crying a little.

Then comes January, you get a little excited because life gets a little bit of normalcy back but it fools you and it’s all an illusion.
It’s time to throw away the old packets of the chocolates you devoured last night. But it’s in that moment you realise don’t even care about your health right now and then break into the kids treats that they got for Christmas two weeks ago because you just need something to snack on because January is hard and when you look down you realise you have dribbled chocolate onto your top, but you don’t even change it because you haven’t any shame…. anymore.
You will spend the whole of January trying to talk your body out of needing those trans fats and that sugar high that you have learnt to love so dear.

January doesn’t take no for an answer though and January will make you her bitch and she will have you testing your willpower day after day after day until finally that day becomes February.

I hate December.

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