Hello. My name is Alice.
It has been 31 days since my last drink. It has been 5 days since my last corn
chip, 8 hours since my last can of coke and 27 minutes since my last Ferrero
Rocher.
The buzz I once sought from alcohol has been replaced with a
series of sugar highs. I find myself reaching for all sorts of sweeties and
treaties, consolation prizes for dealing with parties and dinners completely
sober. I hate to be blunt but the majority of people are pretty boring unless
you are a tad tiddly. The next best thing I have discovered is a spoonful of tiramisu. It’s a fabulous ‘pick me up’. Unfortunately, it comes with no warning of the ‘pull you
down’ you experience soon after, as your body turns the excess sugar into fat
and packs it off to live on your thighs for a decade.
I consulted my scales a couple of weeks into my new alcohol free life. They happily reported that my body weight had decreased by 2.5 kilos. The following day they shook their head whilst explaining that in a shock twist I had put on 5 kilos overnight. We have since been enjoying a rollercoaster ride of weight reports together that involve examinations in every part of the house and on different floor surfaces. Just like the weather, there are frequent changes and almost always last minute twists on what you were expecting. I probably need to start limiting my $2 shop purchases to 1 ply toilet paper and garbage scented candles.
So I did what any woman would do when
the scales are telling whoppers, I reached for my favourite pair of jeans.
The one material on planet Earth that never lies to you because they don’t need to. They seem to run with the attitude
that things are their way or the highway. And that was the moment I received
confirmation that my sugar bloat was interfering with my favourite pants
covering their intended area. If they don’t cover your thighs they are just
elaborate socks with a rather awkward pocket.