Holiday excess and quick fixes

Last night, we went with friends for a birthday dinner to Zachary's at Pezula in Knysna and quaffed:

- a Kir Royale
- a glass of De Morgenzon Chenin Blanc (wooded and totally delicious; seriously, who knew Chenin could taste this good?)
- a glass of Thelema Chardonnay
- a glass of Pinot Noir (by this stage, I was paying little attention to the vineyard)

The meal was excellent. I had an organic garden salad with spring flowers and a Champagne vinaigrette, some sort of Amuse Bouche, a perfectly done fillet with garlic and smoked butter mash, a dessert (compliments of the Chef) and a local cheese platter with watermelon preserve and figs.

This would be quite fine if it was a once-off, but since we started our holiday, I find myself drinking wine at a 3 course lunch, scoffing chocolates in the afternoon and then gorging myself on a completely delicious dinner, washed down with The Grapes of Sloth. And despite the fact that I am actually quite reasonable at arithmetic, I manage to convince myself that my 'walk around the island' will sort it all out.

This really is fuckwit logic though. Here's the actual math:

3 glasses of wine + 1 Kir Royale at dinner last night = (70 x 3) + 200 = 410 calories consumed
1 hour walk around island = 150 calories burned

Note that this excludes the actual solids I consumed, which, over the course of yesterday, also included batter fried prawns, mussels, Belgian feta, spring rolls and another glass of wine. (and almond tart and lemon meringue in the afternoon, but I'm repressing that)

As you can see, mathematically, I am destined to roll back to Johannesburg on 2 January, full of resolve to undo this pigly damage and get myself into 'the best shape of my life'. Every year. Same story.

My body needs nourishment and sleep and exercise to recuperate after a killer year, and yet, when the routines and the schedules and the task lists dissolve, so does my discipline. Every holiday, David and I are excessive and unhealthy and we end our vacations full of blubber and self-loathing.

Another mathematical misfortune:

It takes 3500 extra calories to gain a pound of schmaltz. Similarly, you need a 3500 calorie deficit to lose a pound. (2.2 pounds = 1 kg) Do you know how goddamn easy it is to scoff down an extra 3500 calories? You could do it in 2 days without much effort. But to lose that pound? You need to religiously cut 500 calories a day for a full 7 days.

Oh if only my discipline was as good as my maths.

In an effort to refocus my efforts and not start 2011 as a genuine candidate for The Biggest Loser, I am going to download 'The 4 Hour Body' book. It's written by Tim Ferriss, the maniac who wrote 'The 4 hour Work Week'. Dude is 33 years old and what he has achieved is truly phenomenal. (his blog is great too.... www.fourhourworkweek.com/blog. He's a bonkers and adventurous and experimental and all about stuffing life to the brim.

Sooo...I will let you all know what the book is like (planning to read The 4 Hour Work Week too so that I can become a CYBORG next year) and welcome any comments from those of you that have:

1. Read the books
2. Read Tim's blog
3. Know where I can get my jaw wired shut for the holidays

Ho ho ho.

A Christmas tear

Today, I sat in therapy, curled into what felt like a plastic, empty ball, and cried. This year has left me somewhat defeated and deflated and today's 'break up day' has me anxious about the time and space in the holiday ahead. We're off to Stellenbosch tomorrow for a few days, and then we drive down to Knysna, where I'm hoping to read (a book and not an RFP document), drink (wine and not 9 espressos), spend time with my children (and not in a moving vehicle) and sleep (just sleep).

In the past 12 months:
- my mom got married
- a loved one started drug rehab
- I fired my maid, on whom I relied so heavily with my kids (but when somebody whacks your child on the head and tells your child to lie to you about it, it's a deal-breaker)
- I fired my PA (after months of mess)
- I built offices
- I expanded my business and hired 3 people
- I took on more work than I ever have before
- I welcomed my best best friend back to South Africa, and then bid her a very tearful farewell less than a year later
- I experienced more health issues and ingested more morphine than in the 33 years prior combined
- I didn't exercise, doctor's orders

At the same time, my husband took over his family's business, travelled more than he ever has and ran a university for 300 entrepreneurs from all over the world.

I know my life is blessed in many ways, but this year has kicked my ass. And then some.

So when in therapy today, I told my therapist that I was trying to be forgiving of myself for not being 'Mom of the Year' in the last few months, my therapist's response was jarring:

"Ben (my youngest, who is almost 2 and a challenge) won't get easier. These issues won't go away. They'll just be bigger issues in a bigger body."

And his issues, apparently, are inversely proportional to the amount of time I spend with him.

I've tried. Fuck but I've tried. There are days when I am up working until midnight, making school lunch in the wee small hours and trying desperately, in a jam-packed day, riddled with exhaustion, to fit in a puzzle, a quick walk with the pram and a story. And sometimes I don't get to do much more than bath my boys and read them a story and cuddle them.

And that's not good enough.

The tough thing now is that I am no longer a one-woman show. I have staff and salaries to pay and overheads. I have responsibilities and risks and I've given up the luxury of being able to wind up and wind down whenever I choose to.

This 'have it all' thing is bollocks. You can't, unless your standards are rock bottom or you're a bloke. If you're a woman and you're remotely Type A, you're stuffed. You're destined to be anxious, judged and guilt-ridden while you try your damndest to fill 11 roles and cum laude each and every one of them.

I'm going to use this holiday to reflect on what 'working motherhood' should look like for me. I might not ever get to that ideal, balanced place, but at least I'll have a vision to guide me.

Peace.

Is Aubrey actually Audrey?

As 2010 screeches to a halt (and not a moment too fucking soon I might add), so we begin to reflect on the year past.
Was I happy?
Did I find balance?
What did I achieve?
What did I learn?
Is Aubrey actually a girl?

I'm serious. For those of you that have read earlier posts, Aubrey, our family hamster, will be familiar to you. Nay, some of you have actually begun to feel somewhat attached to him. Or her, as it turns out.

Soooo....there I was doing what all Type A mothers do late on a Thursday afternoon: tidying up Duplo, whilst playing with the hamster, whilst drinking my 9th coffee, whilst talking to a client on the phone, whilst trying to tie Ben's shoelace. Ben, who was handling Aubrey in a way only Ben can, turned the poor little fucker over.

And I hate to say it, but either Aubrey is a very unlucky fella....or he's a girl.

The thought crossed my mind to rename her Audrey and kit out her cage with Hepburn-inspired decor: a rat version of Breakfast at Tiffany's.

But I've decided against it. Hell if Cher's daughter can rename herself Chaz (born a lovely lass named Chastity), then Aubrey can remain a boy. We have already socialised him into thinking he's one and isn't that half of it anyway?

XX