Woo hoo, look at me, I climbed the stairs four times yesterday. I’m a freaking rock star. I did wonders for my body. I’m on the path to a healthier life. I deserve a medal. Yay me. And then I went and ate McDonalds for supper. Yeah, the burger, the chips, the cooldrink. The whole shebang.
The worst part? We haven’t eaten fast food like that for five months. It was supposed to be a year long thing – well that was the general idea. And it’s not like I realized half way through my Spicy Cajun Chicken meal what I was doing. Like “Oh no, how did all this processed, carb-laden unhealthiness accidentally fall upwards into my mouth?” No, I made a conscious decision while standing in the queue.
I failed. Willingly. And I can’t seem to bring myself to beat myself up too much. There’s no wailing pity party here. No desperately searching for my erstwhile navel so I can do some gazing. I know I messed up. And I know it wasn’t worth it. But I also know it’s not the end of the world. I just sabotaged myself. I’m the only one inconvenienced by my silly decision. Am I hanging my head in shame? No. I’m just determined to fix this and not do it again.
Problem is, this dratted body is a crazy-eyed junky when it comes to carbs. It races around like a spoilt kid on a Christmas sugar high, like a fat little PacMan chowing all the pretty carby blobs. So I’m glugging back the water. Flushing away the badness and trying to forget the soft sponginess of bread on my tongue, the slick of oil on my lips after wolfing down the fries.
Today I’m all about healthiness. Water, baby. That’s the ticket. And maybe a coffee later if I feel strong enough to tackle climbing back up the stairs again.