drinking wine and eating cheese … you know
Traditionally made, seasonal, fresh cheese makes me sick – as a dog. I love it and eat it anyway. Slabs of it. Throw in some red, a few grapes and a nice thick finger of fruit cake, and who cares about migraines or Christmas dinner?
It made me fat in college. Not real fat, but fat enough. Then I moved abroad and in with a group of university students. One was an actor. His girlfriend – a chic named Luisa. Luisa Walker was thin and gorgeous. Blonde lines and graceful angles. She’s an investment banker these days. Or at least she’s suppose to be. I haven’t seen her in years so … who knows. She use to do stomach crunches in the living room while I ate Gruyere and macaroni in the kitchen. I’m sure I had the better time of it, but she was throwing on leather trousers while I was growing out of my replacement denim (i.e. fat pants). I kept thinking “tomorrow” and wondered if my aunt’s “I MAY BE FAT, BUT YOU’RE UGLY, AND I CAN DIET” tshirt held true for me too. (The aunt was once a cow, who lost loads of weight. Her skinny friends were still skinny. But they were still ugly too. The aunt was a stunner.)
That was five years and three personal trainers ago. I’m still not in the fighting shape my brother is. But I’m determined. These days I weight train (no bulk thank you) when I’m depressed; I don’t eat curry; and I only swallow cheese at holiday parties – where I wash down blocks of Brie, with Mallorie’s punch, and giggle. I’ve done it every night this week. And I’m getting ready to do it again. *Bliss*
