Can We Talk About Dry January?

Can We Talk About Dry January?

I am just going to put this out there, bear with, dry January, dry.bloody.January. I have never in the past succumbed to the pressure to bin the booze for an entire month. Entirely not seeing the point. Having two small ones means big bender nights out are a thing of the past. Nights out are generally a thing of the past actually. So if a chow mein and a Sauvignon Blanc are my happy place on a Saturday night, so be it. I have never had the inclination to give that up. Life is too short. It should be enjoyed. Besides, I am at the gym sweating it out Sunday morning.

Generally speaking I am of the opinion that we should be kind to ourselves, in every way and if a bit of moderated booze is your thing then do it. I’ve never felt the need to curtail my wine intake. Or gin intake for that matter. Hm, no I’ve never felt the need to STOP my intake.

That said, whilst I don’t neck a bottle of the good stuff  every night I have no problem admitting I am probably one of those mum’s the ever painful daily mail refer to as ‘middle class winos’ or something equally as derogatory, probably less of the middle class though. I am the first to dive for the wine at 4.58 on a Friday night, sometimes it is what get’s me through. I don’t go out to dinner without making prior arrangements to ensure I am not designated driver and if the suns out, beers out, or gin, or bubbles. Not ideal when you chase the sun as we do. I am not sorry.

Mr Tammy and I have always said, we don’t really have paid for hobbies, we don’t have motorbikes, we don’t smoke, we don’t play golf or any other recreational activity that costs us, so if we want to drink a decent bottle of champagne, a good wine or an over priced G&T then we will, it’s our thing. Again, I am not sorry.

Whilst I am not sorry, it has got me, well us thinking. We may not be filling our glasses nightly but when we do, they’re rarely empty and that’s probably not ideal either. It doesn’t make for a particularly cheap outing just a crap nights sleep and feeling pretty rubbish the next day. Not to mention the bottle(s) of empty calories we are consuming.

I have heard so many people rave about dry January and how much better they feel for it. How they are full of energy, feel amazing and drop a couple of pounds or so.

So whilst we’re coming out of a remarkably dry Christmas period with a fridge stocked to the brim, for the first time I, no WE,  have actually felt the need to give this dry bloody January malarky a go. Kind of. We have two pre set dates in the diary that we are allowing ourselves a drink.

The timing is pretty shocking. I kid you not we have 3 bottles of champagne, 1 prosecco, 2 bottles of wine, 4 bottles of gin and god knows how many beers, all perfectly chilled in the fridge and they’re all the good stuff too.

Not going to lie, tonight I am suffering. I am 7 days into my dry month, it is Saturday night and I am typing away furiously to keep my fingers from wrapping around the neck of the Oyster Bay.

I have been stroppy, actually stroppy. At this moment I am annoyed I agreed to do it because the half a bottle of wine is, to my mind, not over the top and this whole situ is the reason I have never considered dry January to be a good idea before. So why haven’t I just gone for it and allowed myself the small pleasure this weekend?

Well it appears I am quite stubborn also. I said I wouldn’t and couldn’t, so I wont. To prove a point to myself if nothing else, URGH. What a knob. I see where my children get it from. I would be more disappointed with myself for breaking a week in than I am sat here supping my water and eating chickpea crisps. Really.

I weighed myself before Christmas, I weighed myself after (it was plus 2 FYI) and I will weigh myself after this long old dry month. I will see what, if any, difference has been made. I will report back as to whether I feel a different person, full of beans with flawless skin – I am also trying to drink two litres of a water a day, less than ideal for someone who has had two children.

So anyway, let’s see what the fuss is all about.

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