Living in Spain means one thing: beach season prep starts in January. And by “prep,” I mean I proudly declare Dry January—refusing to serve myself alcohol like the responsible adult I am then.
Do I make it to the end? Almost. Sometimes I miss a few days, sometimes… a couple of weeks. It’s called balance.
Next, I dive into Google for intense gym regimes and squeeze myself into an overcrowded gym full of people with similar January guilt. I start intermittent fasting and aggressively ignore the sweet aisle at the supermarket. (It never works, never has, never will.)
By April, things are looking up. I feel lighter and healthier. I’ve dropped a few kilos, and I can almost see a six pack. Life is good.
But here’s the twist: beach season doesn’t start in April—it starts in June. And that’s where it all falls apart.
By May, I’m over it. Completely. I’m tired of “good fats,” “no fats,” and 1-hour walks that feel like a punishment. I don’t plan my downfall—it just sort of… unfolds. Naturally.
Workouts become optional. Pizza nights multiply. Suddenly, I rediscover my passion for baking and my deep resentment toward salads.
And so, June arrives. And I’m right back where I started.
Back to square one.
Comments