An open letter to my “Summer Body”.
Dear Summer Body,
I write this letter to you from my bed… at 11:57am on a Thursday.
Yes, I am still lying in bed at midday. I’m watching cars roll past my window, and I can hear tradies working hard across the street. Even my 17-year-old brother is awake, which means I should definitely be out in the world and doing something, but I’m not.
Instead, I’m in bed, breathing a lil’ bit heavier than usual because I just polished off a ham and cheese toastie.
It’s the end of January and you, Summer Body, are nowhere to be seen.
I truly believed this year would be different. I wholeheartedly believed 2016 would be the year I’d put down the bacon and pick up the dumbbells.
But, Summer Body, you are not here. And it’s for the exact same reasons you weren’t here in the summer of ’15, ’14 and ’13.
I honestly went into this summer with sky-high hopes for you. I visualised you on a beach, looking like one of those I-Have-Thirty-Thousand-Followers-On-Instagram-And-Have-A-Fetish-For-Coffee-Body-Scrubs Girls. I imagined you having perfectly sculpted abdominal muscles and the ass of a peach. I pictured you looking ON POINT in photos. I envisaged a life where I wouldn’t have to cover my upper-arms in every goddamn outfit.
But ever since Christmas Day, I have treated you like Australian Idol and GTM treated Shannon Noll (like absolute shit).
I promised I’d have you looking fit and toned by the start of February, but instead I’ve made you look like Play-Doh being squished through fingers. For this, I sincerely apologise.
I’m sorry for the numerous slabs of Somersby ciders I have drowned you in over the last month.
And when I’ve finished my ciders, I’m sorry for drinking every espresso martini in sight. (I’m also sorry on behalf of everyone who still calls espresso martinis “expresso martinis”.)
I’m sorry for enjoying myself too much at a Sunday session. Every. Single. Sunday.
I’m sorry for all the times I went back for
seconds thirds eighths.
I’m sorry for not going to the gym as often as I should (or ever).
I’m sorry for eating four sausages in bread AND THEN three slices of pizza on Australia Day.
Actually, I’m sorry for every little thing I did on Australia Day.
I’m sorry for exhausting Maccas’ “All Day Breakfast Menu”, and for purchasing enough $1 Hashbrowns to feed a small nation.
I’m sorry for the fact that, as I write this, I’m eating Nutella straight out of the tub with a spoon.
I’M JUST REALLY EFFING SORRY, OKAY?! I don’t mean to be lazy, I really don’t.
But Summer Body, do you realise how good Nutella tastes? Do you understand the sheer freakin’ delight I feel when I wrap my paws around an icy-cold apple cider at a Sunday sesh? Or the comfort of my nostrils being filled with the gentle wafts of an old-fashioned barbecue?
You don’t, because to enjoy a textbook “Summer Body”, you need to deprive yourself of everything that makes the summertime good.
And look – that’s just no fun at all.
Come to think of it, I’d much rather have an incredible summer with a soft tummy, than spend three months of my life worrying about calories and the size of my thighs.
It’s hard for me to say this, Summer Body, but maybe I’m not that sorry.
Correction: I’m not sorry at all.
So here’s to another cider, yeah?