Life of Leisure?

The prep for the wedding saw my absolute peak of working out combined with not eating like a starved golden retriever.. (that is to say, stuffing anything, including shoe leather into my face).

I'm capable of eating healthy, balanced meals regularly- and I'm also capable of working out more than the average bear, but rarely do those habits coincide and result in losing those hateful 5 lbs which I'm pretty sure are the only thing between me and paid red carpet appearances...

The wedding however managed to inspire some serious effort (without total obsession) with regard to not eating crap and working out regularly at the same time.  When I say "not eating crap" I should clarify.  I still had pasta, and wine, and cheese.  But I typically managed less pasta, less wine and less cheese... or at least I managed not to cook with those three items as my primary ingredients for each snack and meal. 

Also, when I say "working out regularly" I mean 30 minutes with Ann Curry and Matt Lauer in the morning, stopping to sip on my latte and stretch ever 12-14 minutes.  I did couple this with seeing a personal trainer 3-4 times a week, but I have him sufficiently terrified of my lower back and left knee issues that I have probably sabotaged all but the most basic benefit from those sessions...

Those powers combined, I managed to loose probably 2 of the 5 hateful pounds ruining my life of leisure, which is admittedly closer than I've ever been before.

That is until The Boy and I went on our incredibly extended perfectly planned honeymoon.  Typically when I vacation I find myself departing in an adorably appropriate outfit for the locale but returning in something decidedly more tragic such as sweatpants and loose fitting tube top.  This is usually due in part to the extreme bloat and weight gain I am capable of in 5 short days, but also sometimes because of crippling sunburn which will end up preventing me from comfortably wearing anything from shoes with laces to a bra. 

Charming, I know.

Anyway,  imagine my surprise when after 3 weeks of 6 course meals and essentially brushing my teeth with wine instead of Tanzanian tap water, I returned home to my exact wedding weight.

(note.  I do not condone weighing oneself as a consistent measure of fitness.  Scales lie.  I know this. I have been both skinny and muscled at the same exact same weight that will other times prevent zipping of even my most forgiving jeans.  It's cruel)

What was I doing on a scale then you ask? well... in my absolute panic surrounding my limitation of 30lbs of luggage for safari I had rigged a rather elaborate scale system that allowed me to balance my bag on the bathroom scale while still being able to view the measurement.

Bigger minds might inquire as to why I didn't simply stand on the scale, weight myself, then pick up my bag and do the simple subtraction to learn the weight of my bag.   If I were clever, I'd say that I was avoiding having to learn - and then obsess about my own weight - but in point of fact this option just occurred to me as I'm typing this, so now I just feel silly.

Regardless of how I got there, I cannot overemphasize my complete and utter confusion at the thought that three weeks of total indulgence and gluttony somehow resulted in not ruining my wedding weight.  A stomach flu or two would have been an acceptable explaination, but I had nothing.

A friend finally hit the nail on the head (I think) when she deduced that my body just must really enjoy vacation.  In fact, I believe she said it must be "made for a life of leisure." 

Those women's mags always talk about how once you figure out your sleep cycle and drink enough water and take your vitamins and stretch and do yoga... the weight just magically falls off and stays off.

Apparently the "permanent life change" that my body craves is a five star resort on a tropical African Isle. 

shit.