Life in the Febfast lane

Yes, you heard correctly.  I’m doing Febfast.

If you don’t know me, you’ll be yawning about now and pondering whether to read on.  A dietitian not drinking for a month? That sounds about as newsworthy as your children giving up asparagus, doesn’t it?  Woop-de-fucking-do.

Well… maybe you haven’t met many real live dietitians before.  I’ll let you in on a secret.

Despite what Google thinks, we do not actually look like this:

dietitian image

Some of us don’t even like apples, you know? And the last time I whipped out a tape and measured fruit was, um.. I’m pretty sure I never have.

Oh look, you still don’t believe me?  Well here’s a picture I took at our staff meeting this month.

inside a dietitians' meeting

You see?  Wine is even mandatory during Tuesday night meetings in my workplace (it’s a good way to suss out the latest pregnancy news).

My friends will also vouch for the fact that I enjoy a good tipple, and that I hardly ever wear a lab coat.  Over the last few months, they’ve been lovingly administering me with more of the stuff than I’d care to admit.  And at the mention of Febfast, they’re now shaking their heads in sympathy – certain that I’ve finally lost my poor, tiny little mind.

You see, I’m just not a big one for swearing off things.

I’ve never quit sugar.  Actually I have a very healthy relationship with carbs (one of mutual respect and admiration).

I’m also totally rubbish when it comes to fasting – my only recent experience being when I tried the 5:2 diet to see what all the fuss was about. I lasted all of 17 hours on my meagre 500 calories, until at 2am I was wide awake and so deliriously hungry that I had to creep out of bed and make toast, least I chew my own arm off.

The truth is that I love food, and I especially love good food. And good food goes well with wine, which, in my books, is one of the perks of being a grown up.

Some foods actually demand an appropriate accompanying beverage.  Like these crisps, which – not being enough like crack cocaine by themselves – actually tell you to drink a beer with them.  I’d never noticed the fine print until this February.

chips go better with beer

It is scientifically proven that chips go better with beer

So why (I hear you asking) am I here? Very loudly and publicly vowing my sobriety throughout the month of February? Yikes, it’s hard to remember about now…

But I guess I figured it was time for some clarity.

February seemed as good a time as any to take a break from the booze, and start taking care of business.  And blimey, have I been TCB of late.

My mountain of paperwork is slowly eroding.  My bedroom hasn’t been this orderly since we moved in (one of the unexpected perks of singledom is all that extra cupboard space). And – if I do say so myself – you’d be hard pressed to find a more disciplined Tuppaware cupboard in the wider Glen Iris area.

tuppaware cupboard graphic

Suddenly it’s february 14th (blerk), and I haven’t had a sip.  Which means I’m over the half way hump already.  And considering my body fluid composition is now approximately 40% Perrier and 60% tea, I’m feeling pretty good.

I’m still waiting for the sparkling eyes, glowing skin and thick glossy hair that was promised – oh hang on –  I think I may have just confused Febfast with pregnancy there?  Forgive me.  I’ve been hitting the rocky road ice cream pretty hard tonight.

hit's of rocky road ice cream, straight from the tub

Seriously though, what I have noticed is the decided tinge of optimism in my demeanour these days.  I think it’s got a little to do with sobriety.  But no doubt it’s also just the passage of time.

So, fellow Febfasters – I know there’s a few of you out there.  I think you’ll agree that we all deserve a group hug and a pat on the back about now (or perhaps, just another mini Mars Bar and a cup of tea?).  Let’s chink our posh mineral water in wine glasses, and exclaim ‘gee, this is just so… refreshing!’ in unison.

There’s plenty of room on the sofa of sobriety at my place – we can clean out our email inboxes together, and submit our tax returns whilst knocking back peanut M&Ms like they’re going out of style.  And when we’re spent, we’ll pop on the tele and perve at the dishy Hotel Trivago guy, over, and over again. Ad nauseum.

On behalf of all the Febfasters out there, I’m dialling up a bit of Wilson Phillips tonight (in a totally ironic and self-effacing, Bridesmaids kind of way of course) and belting out a bit of ‘Hold On’ while I’m making the meatballs.

Go ahead and join me – you know you want to.