I HAD my game face on. I was fired up.
I had a plan.
2012 was going to be my year. I was going to storm it head first with enthused energy.
I was practically jogging on the spot; pumped up, waiting for it to come.
I put the gym on speed dial, I set Operation Transformation to series record and I even went underneath my bed and dug out my old fat fighters food diary – the last entry of which was 12 January 2011.
I then waxed lyrical to boyfriend about how I would definitely be two if not three stone lighter for his sister’s wedding in August, which is followed by my friend Therese’s wedding in October.
“I mean, like, it is definitely on,” I told him as I munched on some chocolate. “Like, I’m just eating this last tin of Roses because it’s best to get them out of the way now, you know yourself.”
We had spent New Year’s Eve in England with his family, because he is from England.
I duly took it in turn to bore anyone who came within a hair’s breadth of me with my plans. Obviously, no-one gave a hoot but I felt obliged to rant and rave as if to really hammer home my unending dedication to my new lifestyle.
Unlike the rest of the those embarking on the usually fruitless ‘New Year’s resolutions’ course, I decided Monday 2 January was not going to be the day I began my new life because I was still in England and, sure, you can’t start a new life in England; no one does that.
I did, however, wake up that morning with what I thought was a terrible crick in my neck.
I took the opportunity to lambaste boyfriend’s choice of pillows.
“I can’t move my neck,” I screamed at him. “Your pillows are substandard. You’ll have to buy new ones. I can’t put up with poor pillows when I am trying to start a new healthy life – they are crucial to my wellbeing.”
As the day wore on, the crick did not subside.
“This is worse than I thought,” I thought. “The sooner I get back to Ireland to start my new life, the better.”
The following day I caught the early fl ight home. This was pre-planned; it was not as a result of the pillow fight.
The crick had now spread right across my neck and accompanying it was a distinct inability to swallow, a burning sensation in the throat and occasional blasts of hot sweats.
“Drat,” I thought. “I’m terribly unlucky to catch a minor cold on the day I’m starting my new life.”
Still the crick did not subside, even after I had bought shares in Lemsip and Strepsils.
There is also the small issue of me resenting paying the doctor vast sums of cash when invariably I’ve always felt better almost immediately after seeing them.
Like, if I’m going to gift the doctor €55 – the price of a nice dress – I want to make sure I’m at death’s door.
Ever the martyr, I continued to deny the obvious and insisted I book myself in for spinning classes that week.
When my hearing began to drop in and out as I sat in work, I wondered if I were perhaps dying, but I immediately shunned that idea because part of my New Year’s resolution was to not be a drama queen, even though the old me still hung onto the possibility.
Driving was becoming a chore, given that my neck was now practically frozen in place. I began to make up plausible excuses just in case I caused an accident.
“Sorry, guard, I think you are being very unreasonable; you really can’t have expected me to see that car … sure, I can’t move my neck.”
The final straw came when I woke at 2.30am one morning dripping in sweat after a horrific nightmare involving Cain Dingle – my boyfriend who I lived with in New York – and Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory, who was either trying to help me after Cain was murdered by our evil neighbour, or he was the evil neighbour.
“Hmmm,” I muttered. “I think I might have to go to a doctor.”
I am now in possession of my very first sick note and a large haul of potent drugs. I’ve yet to choose my favourite, but I think I like the Ponstan best. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to pass out.