I have chocolate poisoning.
On Good Friday I woke with clear intentions, a watertight plan and Resolve (note the capital r). I was going to enjoy the Easter weekend, and all its foody goodness, but I was going to exercise restraint, modelling moderation and healthy choices that would inspire impressionable young (and older) minds. It all began well. There was a salad lunch counterpoint to a hot cross bun breakfast; there was a long, brisk walk with the dog before homemade whole grain pizzas. And even though a bottle of wine disappeared between the two of us that evening, it didn't feel like the beginning of a dangerous, slippery, sliding slope of debauchery. Because it wasn't. It was merely evidence of two grown ups enjoying a rare Tiny's-in-bed-and-we're-Freeeeee! treat.
Saturday dawned promisingly (although slightly hazily, let's be fair) and the delicious but not too dangerous Easter meal plan continued. Balance continued unabated (bacon at breakfast but greens at lunch) and a feeling of virtuousness began to wash over me. "See," I thought to myself, "you can have fun without blowing all weight loss efforts completely out of the water." Yet, there is an inevitability to this story that is as predictable as the Fundy tides. Yes, there was moderation; yes, there was balance; yes, there was a clear plan. But there were also taxes and I had not factored their weight into my Easter equation.
Perhaps it all went wrong when we decided to fill the forms out by hand rather than pay to do it all online. Or perhaps it is the simple fact that working out your yearly taxes is eye-crossingly, mind-numbingly boring, whichever way you do it. Whatever the cause, by Sunday, when I was filling out the forms for the third time (having noticed mistakes on the first and second attempt), I sought to relieve my swimming eyes and turned them from the forms and figures to rest on the large dark chocolate bunny gifted to me earlier that day. Maybe it was its (slightly demonic) green eyes, maybe it was the way I felt it was quietly mocking me from its cellophane nest as I filled out form number 933 but, suddenly, I reached over and snapped off a little bit of bunny ear.
I know I need say no more. Except to say that the fall was utter and complete. The taxes are still not finished and I have chocolate poisoning. We can only hope for a better day tomorrow.