I’m In Giving Up Alcohol Hell

Me and the booze are having a trial separation – but breaking up is hard to do

Pouring beer down a sink

I’VE BEEN DRINKING too much since the weather started getting better. That is, since the weather started getting better in 2018.
I distinctly remember that last Easter coincided with a spell of happy, heavy tippling, and I never really stopped after that.
We went on our first-ever cruise last summer, and the size of my belly in our holiday snaps shows that I got my money’s worth when I signed up for unlimited drinks.
Then, in the autumn, my running stats on Strava were distinctly average thanks to the continued quaffing of sherbets.
Over the winter, I tried to emulate the Run Miles, Drink Wine slogan I saw once on a fellow jogger’s T-shirt, but when you are in your 50s it soon it becomes clear that you have to focus on one or the other
On the booze, you run slower and less far, and the meagre health benefits you derive from this reduced activity are quickly overshadowed by the deleterious effects of alcohol.
That is: you stay fat. You can’t run as far as you used to. You don’t feel as much like running, and then you start to hate yourself. Boo, hoo.
There was a time, however, that exercise and boozing used to dovetail perfectly. 

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