When I went back to uni I had grand plans, as documented here: I would go to the gym, work 9 – 5 every day in order to get kickass grades, and reach [insert unobtainable weight here] by Christmas. A likely story. Mr Macaroni, quite rightly, scoffed at the idea of me actually adhering to this, particularly the “I will go to the gym before uni 3 times a week…I will aim to be there for 7:30am” part.
By the time we’d hit the run-up to Christmas, I knew all hope was lost. It could only get worse. Forget the notion of the “Freshers’ Fifteen” (the supposed figure we gain when we’ve finally flown the nest and discovered quad-vods and kebabs) – Christmas is all about the “Family Fifteen”.
Ive never felt more like the Vicar of Dibley than I did this Christmas...
With Harry Potter-mania grasping the nation – and specifically, me – a little more tightly than is healthy, I can’t help but be inspired by the green eyed one.It goes like this – you go through a tricky and ultimately unpleasant experience, to find out more about your enemy, yourself, your friends and your relationships. Is it just me, or is that exactly like a diet?
Here’s what I learnt: carbs are my Voldemort, I have no self-restraint, my friends also do not go to the gym as often as we should, and the boyfriend is a terrible, terrible influence. He truly is the macaroni to my cheese – and by this, I of course mean that when we meet in a kitchen, the resulting dish is sure to clog your arteries.
When I went back to uni I had grand plans, as documented here: I would go to the gym, work 9 – 5 every day in order to get kickass grades, and reach [insert unobtainable weight here] by Christmas. A likely story. Mr Macaroni, quite rightly, scoffed at the idea of me actually adhering to this, particularly the “I will go to the gym before uni 3 times a week…I will aim to be there for 7:30am” part.
By the time we’d hit the run-up to Christmas, I knew all hope was lost. It could only get worse. Forget the notion of the “Freshers’ Fifteen” (the supposed figure we gain when we’ve finally flown the nest and discovered quad-vods and kebabs) – Christmas is all about the “Family Fifteen”.
It didn’t even start with real family. It meant uni family: A Christmas feast that saw 7 of us crowded around a small coffee table desperately trying to avoid each others’ elbows while we squeezed onto sofas and mismatched chairs. Prawn cocktail, roast, chocolate torte and finally, groans of “I don’t think I can move…”. A traditional meal, then. The race to the shops to get emergency crackers came nowhere near cancelling out the calories consumed.
And then Christmas itself. 9 boxes of Roses, Celebrations and Miniature Heroes (because no-one likes Quality Street, right?) sat huddled in the corner of the dining room, boxes of fudge and other sweets balanced precariously on top. There was simply no hope for a holiday season without an expanded waistline.
One Christmas day roast with the family and two roasts with the in-laws later – not forgetting meals out and sushi-and-chocolate suppers – and the jeans I so proudly squeezed myself into before Christmas are now looking a little, er, snug.
I’ve love to say I don’t know why we do it, it’s not worth it at all. But instead, I’ll say only this: I do not regret a single forkful. Never before have I felt so much like the Vicar of Dibley, but the English breakfast, the roasts and the sneakily chomped miniature Twirls were all worth it.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a 7am date with a cross trainer to prepare for (you don’t believe me for a single minute, right?)
NB: I didn’t gain fifteen pounds, really!
Image: Virgin Media
