A while back, I wrote a post about Beer Houses, the fast-spreading virus of the watering hole world. A love-hate relationship was contained within that post. Hate the hipsterness, hate the pretentiousness, love the decor (metal and timber) and most importantly, I developed a love of the beer. And the beer developed a love for me and my disposable income. As a result, there’s a few inches more of me to love. Around. The. Waist.
I first noticed this when my boyfriend politely pointed out I had a “beer belly”. Oh wait, that’s right, it wasn’t polite. But it was accompanied by a loving, delightful tummy pinch (delightful in that it seemed to delight him). Apparently (according to him of course) this is reasonable relationship behaviour (but as I’m writing this I’m sober, in the burbs, watching an enforced AFL game on a Friday night – so I might be painting the tummy pinch as worse than it really was due to having a bad attitude).
Ok, if I’m being completely honest, it wasn’t just that my love handle was being, well, handled. I did also notice that my jeans were tighter and I just didn’t look as firm as normal. Why on earth was this happening? I asked a friend over a second pint of pale ale. We were drinking said pale ale in an inner city distillery frequented by inner city prats. We effing loved this place. The working week was an uncomfortable interlude between visits. I haven’t changed my diet, my exercise regime – nothing! I declared indignantly. God obviously hated me, and perhaps I was suddenly afflicted with a metabolic disorder. It was clearly the only explanation.
A third pint later, it dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten dinner but good lord, I was full. And then I took another look at the three empty pints. And then I realised – I just ate the equivalent of three meals. And I’d started doing it three times a week. My friend met my eyes and though no spoken words passed between us, he was suddenly burdened with the knowledge of what I was to say next.
“No!” He cried out in terror. “You’re not giving up beer yet! One more visit! Just! One! More!”
Sadly I could not grant him just one more. It’s time to cut myself off beer. Besides, this frees me up to go back to my original poison of choice, bourbon. Let’s see how that goes…