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Step Away from the Wine

Step Away from the Wine


I never was much of a drinker. I’d have the occasional Captain and Diet, but I never much liked beer or wine. I tried to like wine. I tried so, so hard. Everyone loves wine. Except me. I tried all different kinds of reds, but they all just made me feel tired and useless after a few sips. Plus, the taste. Blech. I could enjoy a Miller Light from time to time, but really most alcohol was a take-it-or-leave-it thing for me.


Until last Easter.


Last Easter I want to Cali to visit my family and they’re big wine drinkers out there. Not in an abusive or addictive way, but in that sophisticated sort of way that I’d always wished I could be. They love it. (I still have serious doubts that anyone loves red wine. I hate it that much. But that’s neither here nor there.)


To get into the spirit of the trip, I had a glass of white wine with my sisters and, to my amazement, I loved it. And then I had another. And one day someone brought out this sweet pear champagne and, aside from the migraine headache it gave me, I’d never had any tastier wine or beverage maybe ever. I loved it.


So, when I got home, I bought some and, once again to my surprise, not only was I loving it, I was loving how I felt while I was drinking it. Which is to say: I felt so fucking relaxed. (Excuse the strong language, please, but it is appropriate for the feeling I had at the time.)


Not since my Master’s degree studies, new job, gastric bypass, COVID life had I felt relaxed and a few glasses of this bubbly wine made me feel lighter than air. Not a care in the world. A fun mom.


So, I kept drinking. I ended up switching to a simple prosecco because to my utter horror, the pear champagne had like 50g of carbs per glass. So, me and prosecco got tight over the weekends. I didn’t drink during the week because it just didn’t occur to me.


But then the move happened. And then getting Joshua acclimated—which has been much more difficult than I’ve let on—and into school, the new job really started kicking my butt, and then a close family member took a serious fall over the Christmas break and, frankly, scared me to death. And I started drinking more. And then the more I drank, the more I ate. I’d be doing great all day with healthy eating, but as soon as I popped the bubbly, all my food responsibility went out the window.

I’d be looking for Joshua’s treats or chips – and I’d find them. And cheese. And crackers. And more wine.


And now, it’s the end of April and I’ve gained twenty freaking pounds.


Twenty.


Ugh. I could vomit just typing out that sentence … and then my honest thought writing that was, “Ohhh. Vomiting. Maybe I could lose a few ounces.”


This is so messed up.


So, I’m breaking up with the wine. Me and wine can’t cohabitate anymore. We can’t Netflix and Chill. We can’t even really be friends.


Am I alone here? Has anyone else gone though this wine induced fat-gathering stage of life? The worst part is that I’ve been working out like crazy, but all the miles run and walked, and all the pounds lifted, and all the reverse lunges cannot work away the wine-after-dark calories.


So – here’s my invitation to you. If you’re struggling with something, know that you’re not alone. I’m not a therapist or anything. But I am walking through this so, if you want me to be your accountability buddy or just want to reach out and say, “Same here, Moffat,” I’m here.


I’m on Peloton and my handle is SarahMoffia. I’m also going to be sharing more of this particular journey on Insta, so make sure to connect with me there too. I feel like the more honest we are about this whole, “holy crap, I need to relax so badly” feeling, the better our chances for success.


I’m honoring my body and mind with this breakup. The truth is, when I drink, I sleep like crap.

And then I’m tired, so my food choices aren’t always tops and I can’t work out quite as hard. And then, when I make a crappy food choice, I feel sick and guilty. And then I’m stressed out… and then I open a bottle of wine.




So, I’m stopping now and putting a cork in it.


Who’s with me?

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