Uh Oh

“Life happens while you’re making other plans.”

This is one of my mother-in-law’s favorite sayings. And it is now the theme for Stage Two of Le Tour de South—Orange Beach, Alabama. Although I’m changing it to, “Michael happens while I’m making other plans.”

I had every intention of saving my caloric indulgences until Texas, but then I walked into our rented condo. With a perfect view out the balcony of the oil-soaked beaches and gentle Gulf waves, I pictured myself sitting on the lounge chair sipping a beverage and munching on some high-caloric snacks.

Michael, reading my mind, said, “Wow! This would be a great spot for happy hour!”

Crap, I thought. He’s not going to help me out on this wellness stuff at all.

Sure enough, later that day, Michael’s in the kitchen whipping up a pitcher of margaritas and putting together a tray of cheese, crackers, and fresh fruit. And he’d gotten the kids involved. They were excited to join us with their glasses of virgin margaritas. How could I say “no” to raising my glass and toasting our beach trip?

I could have, of course. But I didn’t.

And then, because alcohol impairs my judgment, I decided to have a glass of wine too. There I sat, enjoying my unsanctioned beverages with my family as we noshed on appetizers and then we proceeded to play rounds of Uno, Perudo, Old Maid, Texas Hold ‘Em, and Go Fish. It was indeed, a happy hour.

My only saving grace was that earlier in the day, I ran for thirty-five minutes in the condo’s fitness center. That probably cancelled out half of the margarita.

The following day, I ran again and completed my weight training routine; both upper body and lower body workouts. Not because I felt guilty, but because Michael brought home a little white box from the Publix bakery.

Sitting in the kitchen was a perfect Dianna treat. A chocolate-chip cookie sandwich. Two freshly made cookies, half-dipped in melted chocolate, held together by … no … not vanilla ice cream, that would be too common. They were slathered with butter cream icing. I forgot to mention butter cream icing in my post a while back about my death row dinner. It should've made the list. 

Apparently, an inch of icing between two cookies is just not enough of a treat. Michael purchased black cherry ice cream as well. Although he and the kids exclaimed, "It has 30% less fat than regular ice cream. It says so on the package." Thus justifying their purchase.

For the love of God, I thought, Michael’s really trying to kill me.

This is exactly why I do the grocery shopping.