Our intentions were good, they really were. Into my bag I folded my new running shorts, some ankle socks and a sports bra. I hadn't even removed my chip from my shoe, still wrapped around my laces from the 10K Sun Run I'd run earlier that week. Maybe we'd run on the beach in the morning, or sneak into the gym when we woke up, the tropical sun steaming on our backs afterward, beckoning us to the beach.
Intentions don't necessarily dictate reality, though.
We returned last night. All my clothes were rumpled and used and sodden with tequila and suntan lotion and European cigarettes. Except for my pristinely unused running socks sat neatly folded in my shoes, nary a grain of sand to be found.
I've never been to an all-inclusive resort before, but a month ago, Corey and I found an amazing deal online. Our sidekick was staying with his paternal grandparents for a week, and we'd been working our asses off, both at the gym and with work and we desperately wanted some down time. I knew about neverending frozen margaritas and plates of piled meat and dips but I also knew that I've been working my body out like crazy and I wasn't about to let all my efforts go to hell in a handbasket in one week.
Except. There's something that happens in Mexico, in an all inclusive resort where the sweet-dimpled staff bring you margarita after margarita, sing-songing innocently, uno mas, uno mas. There is something that happens at a buffet that makes creme caramel and pancakes and a chocolate dipped donut for breakfast seem normal, especially when thin European women are piling their plates, too.
Corey and I had second lunches frequently, stacking our plates with pasta and guacamole and fajitas from sweet, sweet heaven and what is a 5th pina colada? What's a 6th? Sun, beach, gluttony, check.
In the mornings, we felt bloated, salty, kind of obscene. We took a walk, once, reconciled our greed with the truth that everyone cheats, everyone plunges, no one can be perfect all the time. Red-eyed and distended, we drank and ate till the bitter end.
There was a little tiny bit of activity. Corey played beach volleyball a few times. We went diving. We snorkelled, and I thought guiltily that the kicks must count for something.
We returned sun-burned and swollen (I punched myself in the eye, hard, but that is a whole other, ridiculous story) - with some extraneous flab to work off. The good thing: we feel great about returning to our salads and fresh, healthy food. Both of us would be content to say goodbye to margaritas and coronas for a long time to come. And we realized how critical our healthy eating and working out is to our overall well being. Yeah, overdoing it can be fun. But returning to a healthy balance is even better.
Our workout today (consisting of 300 lunges, dozens of pullups, and trillions of sit ups) punished us severely and we deserved it. Onward, upward, and no more tequila, for at least a year.
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