So, possibly this is TMI but somewhere around day 24 of my monthly cycle, I become a total carbs junkie.
My body rejects any suggestion of avocado for breakfast with a desultory snort, opting instead for mounds of toast topped with Marmite.
This sad fact is hopelessly at odds with my current attempt to revive my healthy lifestyle, which I kicked off about 18 months ago, and then
slightly completely forgot about over Christmas.
Anyway, for the past month or so, I’ve been religiously swimming three or four times a week, walking the dog, cooking actual meals, that sort of thing. And it’s going about as well as any regime change that doesn’t involve eating all the pizza and cake you want can go.
The day started well. Got up, went for a swim, came home, walked the dog.
Healthy lunch of chicken sandwich (wholemeal bread, natch) with fruit. I mean, fair enough, it’s not activated almonds, but it’s pretty good nonetheless.
Except twenty minutes later, I was scouring the backs of cupboards looking for biscuits. Or cake. Or a forgotten packet of Maltesers.
But no joy.
Some IDIOT apparently thought it was a good idea not to buy any unhealthy snacks for home, because that way it’s easier to avoid temptation and make good choices about food.
I tried to distract myself, but it can’t just me me who is a total slave to hormones. All afternoon, while I tried to work, a little voice inside my head was whispering, “Just drive to the shop. You could buy a family-size bar of chocolate, you know. Or six Creme Eggs.”
What can I say? I’m only human.
Even so, there’s no excuse for what happened next.
Lacking any form of cake, biscuit, chocolate or candy in the house, I resorted to this…
I made a gingerbread house.
I made a gingerbread house, just so I could wait an hour for the icing to set, and then eat it.
And my child wasn’t even home.
My shameful craving for biscuity goodness was so strong that I voluntarily whipped egg whites and undertook the sort of shoddy baking that I suspect would make Emily Leary cry real tears of sadness.
Still. It meant I could eat biscuits. And whipping up egg whites for the icing probably burned at least, ooh, 20 calories. So it’s not all bad.
And I figure Flea won’t even notice it’s gone until next Christmas.
[Photo Credit: Shutterstock]