Eating healthy has lately become the bane of my existence. I am constantly being flooded with images of acai bowls, kale and spinach infused cold pressed juices. All I want to do is smash a few dozen Nutella donuts, eat pizza and burgers every day and night and look amazing in a bikini. Seems like that is way too much to ask.
Each night my household undergoes an epic struggle to the death over what our meal will consist of, its actually only myself that struggles and its purely internal. It is the same conversation over and over again. My partner will ask what I want and I will continuously meet him with the same answer… Pizza and burgers, knowing all too well that we are going to be consuming chicken breast, broccoli and sweet potato.
The most amazing part of it all is that I am fully aware of how I feel the 24 hours after eating something greasy, fatty or high in sugar but I have since likened it to childbirth. During labor you beg for death, the pain and the cramps are excruciating, the heavy breathing, panting and sweating, almost exactly how I feel when I have overeaten the delicious goodness of bad food.
Also like labor, once its over you completely forget about what you have just endured. You know it was bad but to try and imagine the exact pain you felt is impossible. The human body is a wonderful thing and I’m sure the same chemical that is released after childbirth that causes the amnesia of such a traumatic event is the very same chemical that is released after your food baby has digested.
This is my struggle most days and I bet I’m not the only one.
We have tried and re-tried over and over again to forgo the idea of stuffing our faces with all the yummy creations and pretty much start a new plan of healthy eating every Sunday night. We will have the all too familiar conversation of how crap we feel and how much weight we have gained to then continue into an all binding pledge of NO MORE!!! No more bad eating, no more binge eating, no more pizza and burgers.
We get so caught up in the conversation and I get so motivated and enthusiastic about it all that I will often take that opportune moment to make the seemingly unbreakable oath to commit to the gym on Monday. At that exact moment, I truly believe in what I am committing to. I have this vision of me oiled up, posing in some dramatic stance wearing the shortest of shorts and a sexy looking sports bra complete with abs of steel and a booty that would bring tears to anyone who sets their eyes upon it. It’s a fantastic moment.
Every Sunday my partner will peel the sweet potato and bake it, steam the broccoli and fry up some chicken breast (with the smallest amount of olive oil possible). He will present it so nicely on the plate and I will try with every ounce of imagination possible, to trick myself into believing that in my heart of hearts this is the epitome of what I desire.
Thankfully he will use some form of spice to make the chicken some what edible and I will sit at the table with the most unconvincing, cheesiest grin I can muster, secretly hating on my existence and blaming my parents for the worst genes ever.
We will polish off every last morsel, say how wonderful the meal was and how happy we are that we are eating healthily all the while knowing both of us are covertly fantasizing about rubbing slices of pizza all over our bodies before consuming them entirely.
It will then be time to retreat to the study where we will sit at our desks and continue to build our empire that is Team Regalis. After a few hours the cravings will kick in. Pizza Shapes and chocolate and donuts… Oh my!! I will pout and moan about how much I would give my left boob for all of those things but deep down I know my ever so strong stallion of a man will not give in to my menial requests. Thus begins another night of disappointment. I have no choice but to turn on the kettle and make myself a Lots-of-Noodle Cup-a-Soup (it is so ridiculously low in calories).
And so is our life from Sunday night to Friday night… Saturday is where we become unstuck.
Generally, on a Saturday night we will have some sort of gathering to attend to, a family barbeque or a date night. I think it would not be an exaggeration to say that it is on this night that we will go nuts. We have consumed that much food between us that we have managed to shock friends, family and the friendly wait staff at whichever restaurant we have decided to grace with our presence.
It can actually be somewhat embarrassing when we are helping ourselves to thirds… and perhaps thirds and a half. I will always complain that I have not dressed appropriately as I can’t unzip my dress to give my swollen gut room without exposing my goodies.
The drive home will be all heavy breathing, sweating and me trying to remove items of clothing. One would think this is the perfect beginning and setting of some epic porn film but no… I’m just about to die from overstretching my stomach to the point that my eyeballs hurt from the pressure.
Walking in the door and stripping right off before falling into bed is not at all uncommon on a Saturday night, especially with the addition of wailing and moaning and again, no hot porn style sex happening, mainly because the repeated movement would definitely cause a scene from the Exorcist.
We try to sleep it off as much as we can but still end up feeling so lethargic, dehydrated and all round crap.
After consuming the strongest coffee the machine can muster I vow to not eat again until at least dinner time. This is the only moment in the whole week that chicken, sweet potato and broccoli actually sound like something that would be delivered upon an angel’s back, embedded in the softest of wings, bought down from the Heavens to nourish, replenish and fix my broken soul. With the most legitimate broad grin on my face I declare that I will be hitting the gym tomorrow all the while visualizing my shorter than short shorts on my oiled up booty.
TEAM REGALIS 