Grrh! Accountability, schmaccountability. I didn’t fall off the wagon, but the wagon did wobble today. White bread has been the principal love of my life. When I was fifteen, Kevin McAuliffe’s mother introduced me to the breakfast roll, sold from a windowsill in school at the 11:00 break, with or without egg. In college, lunch was a roll with ham, egg, coleslaw and cheese please. Hot food delis are a major failing – the combinations of bread and meat are countless: sausage rolls, jambons, Cornish pasties, and more. During my Polish years, my favourite dinner was egg bread (French toast to others). When I arrived in Dublin, a new evil lurked – the chicken fillet roll, with mayonnaise and cheese, please. My death-row meal would be a doorstep sandwich, with fresh cottage bread, lashings of salty Irish butter and white pudding, washed down with milk. So I had a bread roll today. Yes, I did. For the entire morning, my brain was arguing “you can’t possibly diet if you’re giving up smoking; have a nice hot chicken roll”; another side of my brain argued, “you can’t possibly give up smoking if you’re dieting; have a fag.”
Anyway, tomorrow, I will be a better Connor. I already had an extra walk today to make up for the sins of this afternoon.
As to the thighs, I did my kettle bell squats last night, as well as calf raises. I did my warm up (five minutes of manic lepping and dancing around my bedroom) and my stretches, but I still felt the burn and my thighs have been feeling the burn all day. I can’t sit down, stand up, walk upstairs or uphill without yelping. Tonight it’s my midsection, so don’t make me laugh tomorrow.
Oh, and I still have the body of a smoker, but my teeth are slightly less fluorescent yellow than yesterday. Yay!
The French are lying in wait for me tomorrow. My ennui-filled French students have invited me for a drink tomorrow evening. If I have any more than one and a half drinks tomorrow, or if I smoke, or (God forbid) end up in the chipper, I’m not going to allow myself any drink this weekend.