The three weeks before this latest Christmas extravaganza, I worked out five days a week, ate extremely healthily (not counting the “tester” tastings of the chocolates we made for everyone this year), and as soon as December 24th rolled around, I hung up my metaphorical pink workout sneakers and strapped on the most extravagant, I’m-gonna-regret-charging-this-now-‘cuz-I’m-gonna-have-to-pay-for-it-later, “special” Christmas shoes and gorged myself on everything in sight with minimal calorie-compensating movement.
“It’s just once a year.” “You’ll get back on track as soon as the holidays are over.” I know this is true. I worked out yesterday and today just to prove it to myself. So why do I feel guilty? I have yet to mentally laminate my “Get Out Of Health Free” card for use during special occassions, or just because I really, really, really want that piece of cake or really, really, really want to sleep in instead of working out. It’s as if half of me turns on the laminating machine, ready to cut myself a break, and the other half quickly shuts it off, unplugs it, and hides it in the closet, hoping to prevent myself from falling down that slippery slope AGAIN.
I know there’s a happy medium somewhere. I guess I’m still looking for it.