I cannot lie. I am writing this with my laptop balanced on my ever growing mid-section that is finally succumbing to the sag of middle age / serious regular overindulgence in cheesecake, chocolate, bacon and red wine. Stress makes some people stop eating (Him Underfoot notably) – me, I turn to the nearest biscuit barrel. Suffice to say that as I end a week’s break from work and full scale mass imbibing missions, I have gained half a stone and a muffin top over a 3 week period.
There is only myself to blame, and the likelihood is that this will continue for the rest of the month for various reasons. It’s making me miserable, grumpy, and unhappy in my own skin. It’s also beginning to render a wardrobe of nice clothes unwearable. For the first time in my life I have a gut. I’ve always been blessed with a flat stomach for no effort – balancing out my generous ass and stumpy legs. Him Underfoot tells me that I’m fine – but actually I’m not. Thirty units of alcohol a week is not fine – and more than double my usual weekly consumption.
I’m too weary and too sad to go into the many reasons why this has happened and why it’s going to continue a little longer. I’m out of control of many things, and I hate it. Hell, I’m sitting here waiting for the phone to ring right now with a swollen over stuffed belly. Waiting to hear if my relative who is having major cancer surgery this afternoon is ok. Worrying about my mother’s determination to descend into depression driven jealous mania. Wondering if I am really going to barf (bring out the vomitorium…) or if it’s just wind.
There are times when I just can’t stand myself. It’ll pass, hopefully along with the belly mound (and it’s a good reason to get back into the pool and swim away the stress). Gah! Let’s just go bury my head in a mound of pillows and play solitaire on endless repeat, like the loops in my head. 😦