Winter wonder-why-I-want-chocolate-land

Winter wonder-why-I-want-chocolate-land

I’m a bear. Rowr.

At least that’s how I feel in winter.

I want to stuff my face in a never-ending waterfall of carbs and curl up with a heated blanket and never, ever leave my house again. Ever. Maybe quick forays into Pick ‘n Pay are acceptable (to stock up on Milo), but in general, no. No leaving the flat.

I’m going to blame these dark desires for sugar and DVDs on evolution.

When it got cold, what did our ancestors do? Stuffed their faces with antelope and snuggled up in their rather uncomfortable caves for the winter, that’s what. Now we have less antelope jogging around (and even fewer men with spears chasing them) and rather more Beacon Marshmallow Easter Eggs. So while the details change, the fundamentals stay the same. (Face-stuffing.)

My evolutionary urges overwhelmed my simple modern brain the Easter weekend. In a truly indecent display of hot-cross-bunitis and chocolate lust, I ate an impressive amount of resurrection-themed goodies. Including Woolworths new Hot Cross bun muffins.

I went as crazy as a geek at a Princess Leia look-alike competition.

Below are some photos captured while I was in the Chocolate Haze (before I spotted the camera, and, like the legendary Big Foot, vanished into the distance leaving only blurry photos behind).

Needless to say, this has proved somewhat of a dampener on the Mission Succexy Body plan I’ve worked very hard at until now. Months of control then… chocolate.

And also a penchant to lie comatose in bed, watching (mostly) legal TV series. I’m ashamed to say that the guys at the DVD shop greet me by name. I also think they might suspect I have a crush on Simon Baker from The Mentalist (we’ve moved far past the crush stage. I’m deeply in love. Planning to get an autographed restraining order any day now).

Watching all these TV shows has made me realise that my dark side is just covered in chocolate. I’m no Patrick Jane with a dark past of murder and con-mannery, I’m no Dexter Morgan with psychopathic urges to kill (well, not always), and I’m certainly no woman from Wisteria Lane who, quite frankly, might as well stop wearing panties all together.

In fact, I would be great in politics. My dramatic unveiling would be very undramatic – much less interesting than Clinton. “I did not… have relations… with that Kit Kat bar.”

Here’s to another Winter where I’ll be fighting evolution, hoping to emerge from the cocoon of jerseys and blankets a slimmer, more successful human being.


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