I readily admit that no one’s ever had much trouble getting into my pants — neither literally or figuratively — until we left for this trip. In case you don’t remember that embarrassing incident, you can read about it here.
This unfortunate situation has only been exacerbated during the first few weeks of our travels. We got too little exercise, ate too many rich meals, indulged in too much gelato and too many glasses of wine. And, although I hate to admit this, we ate too much bolo do cacao.
But during the two weeks we stayed in Broome, we changed our habits. I went bodysurfing at the beach or swimming in the pool every day, walking on the beach every evening, and most important, our hotel room came with a complete kitchen, so we ate sensible meals at home instead of dining out in restaurants.
So I wish to make a very important announcement. Perhaps the biggest announcement of the trip. An announcement of epic proportions. (Or more accurately, perhaps, less than epic proportions.)
Ladies and gentlemen, I can once again get into my own pants. In fact, they now hang about my waist like a yacht’s sails on a windless day. I may not have a six pack, but neither do I have a keg.