I had a wonderful weekend. G and I took a little girls' trip down to Houston. S was booked all weekend with band trips, and T was still working on our new, architecturally-rendered (if by architecturally rendered you mean using the free Google app to design and measure and then pretty much making it up from there) shed, so I thought I'd go see my mom, who I haven't seen since June (!), and dad.
Any trip to see my parents necessarily involves the ingestion of a fair amount of alcohol. Usually because we're enjoying each other's company. Occasionally because we're driving each other crazy. Regardless, my people come from a long line of people who enjoy a glass of the grape. Or the barley. Or potato. Or juniper. Or whatever, really. And we're really good at it. Because we practice.
Anyway, I had an absolutely super time with my folks, saw some great, old friends from high school. And ate. Ate at all my favorite Houston places that I don't ever get to go to anymore. Ate road food on the way home. And I ate all the things I never let myself eat anymore, project-wise and health-wise. And that's when the party was over. Because, today . . .
I. Feel. Like. Shit.
I can't do it. I can't eat like that for three whole days, and I certainly can't drink like that. So, since we've already delved into fiscal austerity, I've decided to take the plunge into nutritional austerity. It's like my very own episode of Hoarders or Intervention. Except I'm not saving others. I'm saving myself. Well, that, and I have no tattoos and all my teeth, but otherwise, just like that. No alcohol. No carbonation. No nighttime gluten. Seven days.
Pray for me.