It’s “Refreshers’ Week” in Trinity College. This is not a time to celebrate the soft yellow sweet of my childhood. It’s an opportunity to do “Freshers’ Week” again. In case you missed it the first time, I suppose.
It’s 10:00 at night and I’m still on campus. Partly because I had lots of work to do and partly because I kind of dread whatever awaits me at home. Will there be vomiting teenagers? Will there be semi-naked people hanging out of windows by their ankles? Will there be a fire alarm in the middle of the night? Will there be people confessing drunken, but undying love in the hallways?
Actually, if people are confessing undying love in the hallways, I’m really, really sorry I’m missing it.
More than likely they’ll all be clubbing by the time I get home and I won’t even notice that Refreshers’ Week is going on, but I doubt I’ll totally get away with it.
The last post I wrote was a smug one all about success. Well, you’d all better get used to it, because I’m totally kicking ass this week too. I followed my sensible, moderate, non-extreme diet perfectly all week.
I’ve spent two years dismissing people who told me to go back to WeightWatchers, because I was convinced I could do it alone with whatever scheme I had. I should have listened.
I hate you all a little for being right.
But you were all right. This week, having barely deprived myself at all, I lost seven and a half pounds. Yup, that’s over half a stone.
And the world is rallying around to help me this 2012. Things are looking up in the money department, with two (sort of) unexpected offers of work on the horizon. Our PhD gang in the office are more cohesive and friendly than before Christmas. I’m feeling good about diet, about swimming, about the PhD, about work. Something is clearly going to go wrong.
I did chicken out on going boxing today. But my resolution hasn’t failed. One of my PhD gang has promised to go with me on Wednesday, so I’ll send a sweaty report then.
And she is not the only person coming to my aid. A good friend is now baking me breakfasts. Yes, you read that right. Someone has baked Connor seven scones for the week.
I went to this friend’s house for dinner on Sunday, where she cooked me a lovely, low-fat dinner, and as I sat there in the leather sofa, looking at the giant flatscreen TV, breathing in the scent of fresh flowers, while eating with shiny cutlery from a fancy dinner plate, on a real tray, I remembered what being a grown-up was like.
It’s got its perks.
But I’m good with right now too.