Cheat Days are a bad plan, y’all.

This weekend I had 2 birthday parties to attend. I had planned to allow myself 2 cheat days a month (where I can eat whatever I want) and though I would normally spread them out, with the possibility of cake twice in one weekend, I decided to use them both.

Saturday I actually only barely cheated. I spent the morning in the cold, cold rain with a number of other Rollergirls at Crafty Bastards, the Arts and Crafts Fair that the Washington City Paper does. We froze to death, except for the death part, and except when we were arm wrestling. I was apparently the DCRG representative for small boys to beat at arm wrestling (I let them win but SHH, don’t tell them!) And then when I couldn’t stand it any more (and there were 3 billion of us huddling under our tent) I went home with the plan of doing some homework and warming up before heading out to a luau birthday party. Except the thought of leaving my apartment once I got inside again was terrifying, and while I tried to psych myself up to go, the fact that other than the birthday boy, I only knew his wife and his brother at the party, and I am actually very shy (no really) ended up keeping me home. Plus, I found 20 bucks in the laundry, so I ordered a pizza.

I actually could have totally made Saturday not a cheat day, even with the pizza, if only there wasn’t a ten dollar delivery minimum. Medium pizzas are 8 bucks. The cheapest thing to add that wasn’t caffeinated (what’s up with that, Pizza Hut?) was breadsticks. And once I paid for them, I certainly wasn’t going to NOT eat them. Still, Saturday was only 13 calories over budget.

Sunday, however, was the day of a surprise party for my dad, who turns 60 on Wednesday (and for the following 3 months only, I will be exactly half his age! Fancy.) And I ate WAY too much. Itried to be sort of good, only a little potato salad, no roll with my barbeque…but there were cookies. And cake. And ice cream. And dad had a 6 pack of Newcastle, my most favoritest (it’s a word now, dammit!) of non-seasonal beers, in the back of the mini-fridge, just for me. What sort of daughter would I be, not sharing in my father’s desserts and drinking the beer he bought JUST FOR ME? An ungrateful brat of a daughter. So I gorged. And that cake, despite being moist and fluffy, was CRAZY DENSE, y’all. I was so full I was sure I would never eat again.

And then when I got home I had some leftover pizza for dinner.

And then I got killer heartburn.

And now I think I am going to skip cheat days. Although I have an entire month to recover, so please point me at this post when November looms and I start dreaming of sugar and booze.

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