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As I sit poolside this Monday morning under a sun that clearly thinks it’s auditioning for the role of “Giant Cosmic Hairdryer,” one thing is clear: I need a drink. Not that kind of drink — don’t panic, I’m still riding the wagon like a champion rodeo cowboy — but rather my latest invention: a refreshing pint glass of lime juice, mint, ice, and fizzy water. I call it the Diet Mojito.

Yes, folks, today marks Day 37 of my heroic, self-imposed alcohol hiatus. That’s over five weeks of pure, sober living. No wine, no beer, not even a wistful sniff of a cork. I haven’t touched a drop. I haven’t even licked the condensation off someone else’s glass.

But last night, while watching a movie, a rugged lead actor poured himself a generous whisky and slumped down into a leather armchair by a roaring fireplace. For a split second, I was there with him. The crackling logs. The amber glow. The oaky temptation swirling in the glass… and then reality slapped me with a hot gust of air from the AC and reminded me: whisky is not a summer drink. Especially not when your thighs are stuck to the sofa and your shirt is trying to fuse with your back. I settled for a glass of water and a handful of indignation.

Now, let’s talk about the real drama: The Scale Betrayal. After several days of saint-like discipline — no booze, strict diet, and a truly Olympic-level dedication to not moving much — the scales had the audacity to show no change. Not even a pity half-kilo. I suspect my body is sulking. It knows something is missing, and it’s hoarding every gram of pasta I ever ate in 2011.

To make matters more comically tragic, we have a lunch out today. Cutlery that isn’t mine. I’m already mentally preparing myself to say, “Just a salad, no dressing, and a side of restraint, please.”

I’ve lost 5 kilos since I started this regime, which is great. But I still want to drop another 4. Sadly, it seems you can’t just diet lying down — apparently, movement is required. So yes, I’m drafting an exercise plan. It’s called Operation: Move at Least a Bit. The goal? A daily walk. Long-ish. Ideally in the evening, once the sun has finished its attempt to roast me like a Provençal chicken.

So there you have it. Day 37. No booze. No weight loss this week. No signs of madness… yet. Just a man, his minty mocktail, and a dream of fitting back into those pre-pandemic trousers without requiring a shoehorn and a prayer.

Wishing everyone a brilliant start to the week. Stay cool. Stay hydrated. And if you’re drinking anything stronger than fizzy lime water, do it quietly — I’m still fragile.

JJ, Diet Mojito Warrior 🥒🍋