Well, it might as well be seven years…

Last I left you, I had dropped out of everything. That was on August 14. There were a few times when I got into my bikini and stood at the edge of the pool, goggles in hand – then turned back and headed for my room, crawled under the sheets, and texted the maid to bring dinner to the room.

Last September 1, back in Manila, I enrolled for two weeks of Bikram yoga classes. And, out of the eleven days that I could have gone to class, by the time I leave Manila on Friday, I would have gone to only seven of those classes.

I tried going back to doing Paleo and, one night, while at Stephen’s apartment, he asked, “Is this Paleo,” gesturing to the plate we had been steadily demolishing.

“The cheese is fine,” I answered, “but we’re eating bread too.” Two loaves, in fact.

“So what is this,” he asked. “Fail-yo?”

(I told him I’d use it for my next blog post, and here it is. Thank you, Stephen.)

I’m back to having to lose three kilos, just to get down to my normal weight, and I’m not even aspiring to get to my ideal weight anymore. Even my friends now concede that, yes, I have

Ouch.

But I’ve texted my girl back at Siargao: “Do you still have my one-week menu for raw food?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good, because that’s what we’re doing when I get back on Friday, and I only want to eat once a day.”

Desperate measures, indeed.

Someone once said that I may have jinxed myself for calling this blog what it is. Maybe I have. Or maybe I just know myself too well.