The last 'official' weekend of the summer has, for the past 15 years, been full of social functions for me. Not only is it Labour Day but The Boy's birthday. This translates into Birthday Hoopla that comes in a close second to the weeklong celebration of the day my niece Kate was born. Saturday is the cottage with no less than 30 members of my father's side, all drinking and sunning themselves and playing horseshoes and riding their various watercraft and eating. Lord, the eating. Many years ago we switched to potluck so everyone tries to outdo everyone else with their culinary masterpieces. Carefully guarded recipes are pulled out for this occasion, and it's not at all unusual to see cousins harassing their kin with mouths full of coleslaw or trifle, wildly attempting to guess the secret ingredients that make their offering special.

"Chambord? It's chambord, isn't it?

"I taste lime.....or is it coriander seed?"

"You must grow your own parsley because I never buy anything from the store that tastes this good."

Volcano bread, taco salad, honey garlic chicken wings, veggies and dip all make their appearance on the picnic tables hours before dinner is served. We are all encouraged to eat! eat! eat!, except I don't want to, lest I enter the water and sink like a stone. Dinner consists of more salads than you can shake a breadstick at, baked potatoes with sour cream, butter, chives and bacon, thick steaks for the adults and hot dogs or chicken fingers with plum sauce for the kiddies. Devilled eggs, a hollowed out watermelon filled with tiny melon balls, hash brown casserole, lasagna, some tofu monstrosity for the veg-heads and this year a spinach salad with blueberries and sesame seeds (?) appeared as a newcomer.

I was so full as to be uncomfortable. My body's beginning to rebel against large amounts of carbs such as I used to ingest on a regular basis. My heart races and I crave water and ginger ale to replace precious fluids lost by my hypersweating. It's not pretty.

Hours later, as we rolled in the laneway and spent the first 20 minutes inside our front door dealing with the doggies, I was just beginning to feel better. My inner Richard Simmons chided me for overindulging but the little guy in the red suit on my left shoulder comforted me by saying that all Big Girls go superfreaky with the mayonnaise-based salads at one time or another. I plopped down in my wing chair and attempted to find a comfortable position in which to continue the long process of digestion.

The next day was the birthday celebration at Mom and Dad's. Less food, but somehow more carbs. I was a bad, bad girl. I suffered more discomfort and mentally kicked myself around a little more. The only energetic thing I did were a few somersaults on the front lawn with Kate. More ginger ale.

The holiday Monday was a third do at The Boy's mother's house. She doesn't like to go to the houses of her children because she's more comfortable at her home. I, on the other hand, am not. She thinks a/c kills seniors, but acquiesced a few years ago during a really hot spell and got a window unit. It sits in the back room, merrily humming away while the kitchen is truly Hell's Kitchen. The floor fan is my best friend, blowing on the back of my neck and affording me the tiniest bit of comfort. I count the minutes until I can go home and luxuriate in the coolness of my living room. I am anti-social.

Tuesday was back to work and my strict diet schedule and I'm actually relieved. Is it possible to gain back all the weight I've lost over three months in three days?

Posted at 2:08 p.m.