I’VE been on holidays for about four weeks now.
Not real holidays, of course, just holidays from reality. Of those four weeks, only ten days were real holidays; the rest were fake holidays.
A week was spent before real holidays preparing for real holidays, a week and a half was real holidays, another week was recovering from real holidays and the remainder has been spent coming to terms with the fact that I’m not on holidays anymore.
Unfortunately, I have now come to terms with this, and the harsh reality is that I must get back to reality.
It was bliss, it was real bliss – no fat-fighters, no boot camp, no gym.
There was no chatting to the weighing scales before I hopped on – hoping that a bit of cajoling would make it feel sympathetic towards my never-ending plight.
If I was kind to the weighing scales, I figured it would be kind to me; you know, it might think something along the lines of: “Ah, Mairead is being really nice to us today, maybe we will knock a few extra pounds off for good measure, just to make her feel super-duper.”
Nah, there was none of that. I was free – I even kicked the weighing scales a few times, just ’cause I was on holidays.
I thought no-one would notice I was on holidays for a considerably long period of time … but they did.
The boot camp people noticed. I hate them now. Just as I was in the middle of coming up with a blindingly elaborate plan as to how I could shun reality by avoiding fat-fighters, gym and boot camp all in one go, they emailed me.
The email was something along the lines of: “you are not on holidays anymore, get your ass back to boot camp”. “Oh God! You’re not going to make me come back, are you?” I begged.
“Absolutely,” was the callous reply. I stopped short of replying: “Please, please, please don’t make me go back, please, please, please. It’s cold outside and it rains now and I haven’t exercised in soooo long, and everyone will be fitter than me (yes, yes, okay, they were anyway, but now they will be extra fit) and I don’t want to be the class loser again! Nooooooo. I’m not going back. I’m not doing it.”
I might cry, surely they won’t make me go back if I cry?
Oh, who am I kidding? They don’t care if I cry; they are boot campers. What about fat-fighters? How can I get out of that? They don’t care if I cry either. Maybe I could just carry on counting points without their help … I’m sure I could do it on my own.
Oh, who am I kidding? I can’t do it on my own. I need to be admonished every week. I need the stern fighting words to encourage me to shun carbohydrates.
And, oh God … the gym … I’ve really neglected the gym. Maybe they won’t even let me back in because I’ve been such a bad gymer, I’ve really let them down.
Fit people get very upset when fatties let them down, you know.
They don’t understand the complex inner workings of a fatty’s mind, you see. They are most unsympathetic to the carbohydrate lover’s train of thought.
Although, I suppose the fact that my prolonged holiday has resulted in a surprisingly rapid addition of pounds to my portly body means I should actually get my arse in gear to halt the speedy process before it gets out of hand again.
I’m not happy about this; I’m not at all happy, but, on the other hand, there is a really nice dress I want to fit into by Christmas … and I’m not going to manage it with the help of my best friend: white bread.