I came back to Indonesia with about 10 extra kg behind my belt. I like to blame my wife for this – she’s a great cook, so it’s not my fault that I’m supersizing.
Since she won’t be here until the end of June, I have a chance to do something about it. Just imagine – she arrives at the airport, weary from the long flight, and is greeted not by a balding, middle-aged man who can’t see his feet, but a sleek, muscular hunk with the body of an Olympic diving champion.
My mission: to lose at least five kg before she arrives. Or at least to catch sight of my toes when I’m in the shower.
In Jakarta, I live in a house where a girl does all the cooking. Every few days she gives me a shopping list, written in Indonesian. After a session with Google Translate, I go to the supermarket. Kembang kol. Cauliflower. Ikan. Fish. Dada ayam tanpa tulang. Boneless chicken breasts. Got it.
I coldly ignore her requests for bread, potatos, and pasta. I spurn her pleas for mayonaise and beef. I know this worries her, but I’m on a mission.
Will it work? I don’t know. I might have to stop drinking beer for a while, or join a gym. The things we do for love.