In 7 days I compete. Again.

Although I know I’ll continue running, weight training, and eating clean foods after my next competition, now, at this very moment, I have visions of myself walking out of the Tim Hortons with a hot chocolate in one hand and a box of twelve donuts in the other.

In my vision, I don’t share. With anybody. At all.

And even though I’m certain this vision will become a reality in 8 days, after I eat a dozen donuts, I’ll…well, let’s be honest, I’ll vomit.

But AFTER THAT, I’ll be ready for 1/2 cup of brown rice, a chicken breast, and some veggies. To me eating clean is not something I do to prep for a competition: it’s a lifestyle that makes me feel great, gives me tons of energy, and keeps me healthy…I’d like to point out that I haven’t gotten sick once this year. Just sayin’…

I can preach all I want about good, wholesome food, but tonight, however, I had a break down. Like a major one.

Tonight, though, we had a few technical difficulties when I spotted the last remaining Oreo cookies in the cupboard meant for the children’s desserts.
I started with one Oreo cookie.
One cookie.
Big deal.
It’s one cookie.

But that little bastard didn’t leave the bag willingly. He dragged his friends out with him. There were 6…maybe 7. I didn’t count. But I know they were holding hands in solidarity; they may even have been screaming as I popped them into my mouth one by one.

I knew at that moment that the battle was lost.

My husband who is really good at keeping me on track was warned: “Just so you know Wayne, you may see me in the kitchen leaving with a various assortment of food items that are not chicken breasts and brown rice. Don’t get on my case about it. I’m having a “treat meal” tonight.”

He briefly looked up from the hockey game, and waved me away because there were like, 45 seconds left in the last period.

Having resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to win any self-control battles, I sat on the couch with a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and a jar of Nutella, and just began eating.

After 8 slices of bread slathered in shit that is not on my list of acceptable food choices, I felt sufficiently cured of my sugar-low, and ready to tackle this last week of training and dieting like a fiend.

I now have renewed energy, a new outlook on life, and a wicked sugar buzz.

Even though going into the last week hopped up on half a jar of Nutella isn’t optimum, I can totally justify my actions, and convince myself be assured that it’s the best thing I could have done.

Better to have had my breakdown 7 days out, then, let’s say on Wednesday.

I would just like to warn all the Orea cookies in the greater Winnipeg area that after June 2nd, you are not safe.

Especially not you little birthday cake flavoured ones. You guys better run like hell because Imma coming fuckers.

I was a stay-at-home mother until my youngest started school fulltime.

Even then, I didn’t go to work. I went to university, and began my nursing degree, which is a four year program, however, due to circumstances beyond my control (read: I failed a crucial class required for graduation) it will have taken me five years.

University life is easy. People always wonder how I manage to parent four children while going to school, but essentially, my school day is the same as theirs, if not shorter. So I’m usually home by the time they get home.

Now that I’m nearing the end of this experience, and getting closer to being in the workforce, I’m realizing, I really don’t want to work.

What was I thinking going back to school?

Why did I always have this feeling that staying at home with children wasn’t enough?

I ALWAYS felt inadequate.

And for the entirety of my children’s toddler years, I wondered what I was going to do with my life.

I kept busy when they were little by trying my hand at writing a couple of novels. I started a cake-baking business, but 10 lbs (licking buttercream icing off your fingers may seem harmless enough, but the fat jeans I had to buy beg to differ) and several hours of back-breaking, stressful labour later, when I was driving through the city on bumpy winter roads with someone’s 3 tier wedding cake perched precariously on my lap, yelling to my supportive husband, “Pot hole! Pot hole!” I knew I wasn’t going to last long in the industry.

So now, at this stage of my schooling, I am out in the workforce two days a week performing the duties of a community health nurse.

And I hate it.

Not the job itself. The job itself is terrific. The people are work with are supportive, helpful, kind.

But I hate being out of my house. Suddenly I want to bake cookies. I want my kids to walk through the doors to the smell of homemade baking in the air. I want to cook a roast. I want to sit on the soccer field and cheer my son on as he runs with the ball.

Now…NOW…I realize this. But during the 16 years that I was at home, and was doing all of this, I was wishing for a different life. I was certain there was more out there for me.

There was. There were children who were growing up, getting older, now dealing with adolescent issues that I have to brush off to the side until my shift is done.

It has been said that with age comes wisdom.

It should also come with a time machine.

I want a do-over.

June 2nd is the next day that I compete in what could possibly be the last of these silly bikini competitions.
I only say ‘silly’ because I haven’t won the coveted first place trophy…I left with a first place trophy after the World Qualifiers competition on April 28th, but…I…ummm…let’s just leave it at that: I left with a first place trophy (sorry girl who won first but left with my second place trophy, I’m really sorry…no, really, I am…)

Of course, this close to the next competition, I’m spending a lot of time imagining what it would be like to win first.
You could say I’m visualizing it, like it says to do in The Secret…or so Oprah said. I didn’t actually read The Secret, and I suspect Oprah didn’t either…or was that Rosie O’Donell…?

Whatever.

Visualization is all I have left.

I have done all the dieting, stair climbing, weight training, and cardio that I can.

However, if I don’t win 1st place, the following reactions may occur as I watch the first place prize handed over to another competitor:

1. My smile may be turned upside down.

2. My 2nd place trophy may, accidentally, go flying across the stage.
Like a shotput.

3. My 2nd place trophy may end up lodged somewhere inappropriate.

4. My 2nd place trophy may be found in the garbage bin in my changing room.

5. My 2nd place trophy may be found in possession of the lady who actually won the first place trophy…I’ll let you guess where her first place trophy would be.

But no. Seriously folks, I’m not a sore loser. Anymore.
I’m beginning to understand the nature of the competitive beast, and essentially, if I’m meant to win 1st, I will.
If not, then I’ll go home and smash the fucking trophy over my head and thank God that I’ve been blessed with the ability to compete this hard for so many months.

I really do feel like I’ve accomplished a lot. And honestly, I’m not sure I’m done. I still feel like I have more fight left in me. I will probably take a break after this. But next year, I may consider competing at a National level again.

In the meantime though, I can’t promise perfect behaviour if I don’t win first place, but I will try my best to lose with grace and dignity.

However, as I’m standing next to the winner, posing for that final stage shot, my middle finger may accidentally be more evident whilst holding that 2nd place trophy.

It would seem my childen’s friends have found this blog.

So until I figure out how and if I will clean up my act, I’m on a leave of absence…till about Tuesday.