The best intentions.

I never intended to be dancing around the kitchen, swilling from a half-empty bottle of sauvignon blanc on a Monday night. Not tonight, anyway.

It was only a few hours ago I was giving the decadent side of my personality a severe talking to. I even wrote down the chastising monologue. “You will transform your body,” I wrote in a quiet moment at work today. “Stop loitering around being a big fatty, stop being so complacent!”

It was a stern letter indeed, full of promise and determination.

And then I set in motion a chain of events more predictable than a Mills and Boon novel. 

Ben picked me up and I had my eye on a workout. We went down to Brendo’s to fill my bike tyres with air – a crucial element to the extreme fitness regime I was embarking upon. As we drove I told Ben of my grand ambitions about completing the first five minutes of a touch footie game without stalling for  breath, hands on knees. I wanted to be fit enough to run a half marathon again.

I should have known what would happen once we rolled my bike into that tyre shop. The inevitable gold can would be posted into my hand and I would show the sort of reluctance a shopaholic shows when presented with a limit-free credit card.

So, here we are, dancing around the loungeroom with a bottle of wine on a school night and I haven’t even bothered with a glass. Perhaps the sensation is even more exhilarating because it was deemed off limits just hours ago. 

But the real question pops up soon enough. How much do you really want that sexy body? And would I be willing to sacrifice the beer-swilling afternoons of decadence to get it. 

That’s the real moment when my carefree side needs a few strict words from the buzz-kill side of my brain. Luckily that nasty side was dulled by an amber liquid.

Who would trade such a liberated, happy afternoon for a regime designed to chase a shadow, an illusion of happiness.

I’d rather have the real thing – for today, anyway