Monday, June 21

I Think I’m Growing Up. Bummer.

Broken glass littered the dance floor. Adults and children crammed onto a small patio, pulsating wildly to Play That Funky Music, Shout, and other classics.  Beer bottles and wine glasses clinked in the background as toasts to the bride and groom resonated throughout the crowd.

It was your typical non-Baptist southern wedding—plenty of dancing, drinking, eating, merriment, and stuff breaking. At least it felt familiar to me, but I’m from Georgia. We invented the phrase, “It ain’t a party until sometin’ got broke.”

Four weeks into my healthy lifestyle change program and I had a fabulous wedding to attend. Unbelievably, my friends wouldn’t postpone the wedding until I was done with my eight weeks (for some reason they think their wedding is all about them). Thus, I decided to take the night off. I knew, on Day One of the In8 program, that half-way through was going to be a free day for me. It hung out there like a glorious piece of wedding cake covered in rich butter cream frosting. Man, was I looking forward to THAT!

I began my evening of debauchery with the couple’s signature drink, a strawberry bellini. Then switching to white wine, I settled in for a night of mayhem. The one hitch to my plan was the presence of my three children. I couldn’t go completely insane in front of them, could I?

No, I couldn’t.

Their presence definitely impacted how I acted, I think. Or was it something else?

After the garden ceremony, guests filled the white tent, lining up for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Servers mingled with guests offering plates of flaky spanakopita, morsels of lamb, and shrimp cocktail.  I passed on all of it except a single skewer of tomato and fresh mozzarella.

And for dinner I bypassed the carving station, bread and risotto, instead choosing to fill up on salad, raw oysters, steamed crab and shrimp. And I didn’t even have a whole piece of cake. Instead, I took a couple of bites of Grant’s.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Even though I gave myself permission to eat and drink like Henry VIII, I willingly—almost unconsciously—ate like Emily Post.

This program is infiltrating my essence. It’s taking over like some sort of alien body-snatcher.

I’m ruined. Completely and utterly ruined.

Or saved. I guess it depends on your perspective.

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