red whine, cont.

Perhaps drinking so much wine yesterday wasn't the best plan. Sigh. This is a sentiment that I find myself writing way too often. Wine makes me ever so lazy. It convinces me that I really don't need to get out of the house and engage in some level of meaningful physical activity. Oh no, because the perpetual standing up from the couch, walking to the kitchen, uncorking, and pouring the wine all amounts to some measurable form of aerobic activity. Of course, that is until I remember to simply BRING the wine into the living room with me.

Wine also convinces me that I am cold - due, in part, I'm sure to the utter lack of physical activity I'm engaging in. Thus, I find myself even more prone to settling into the couch, with the fireplace on and a movie ready to go on the DVD player. My husband loves when I turn the fireplace on when it's 60 and sunny out, especially when he's outside working and I'm lazing about in a quasi-vegetative state running up the utility bills.

Wine further convinces me that I am hungry. And, that I am not hungry for fruit or vegetables or anything moderately healthy. No. I am hungry for salty, savory, indulgent foods. Like cheese. And, breads. And, mashed potatoes. But, let's be honest. I always crave mashed potatoes.

Wine makes me a sloth. I'm sure of it. My husband suggested that we go for a walk last night. The thought of it was revolting. Needless to say, the walk did not happen. I regret it now. I should have taken that walk, perhaps then I wouldn't feel as though I was wearing a small inner tube around my waist.

Even still, as I sit here with my space heater on (have I mentioned that my boss loves it when I run my space heater when it's 60 and sunny out?), contemplating what to do for lunch, glaring at the piles of work begging to be acknowledged on my desk, I can't help but wish I was home, cuddled up with a movie and . . . yes, a glass of wine.