If you're a regular reader of this blog, you'll know this was the year I became a fat person - and what a joyous experience it's been watching my body's portions super-size.
I can't deny I had some fun getting fat.
There was the daily proscuitto and egg roll from Bacino in Manly, in Sydney's north, that tasted like the promises of a mythical princess; it just sang of ancient pleasure in your mouth.
There was also the pizza, deep fried chicken wings and the Thai food coagulating with peanut sauce, as well as the drunken kebabs from a certain takeaway store in Manly's Corso where you can get a f---, feed or fight most Friday and Saturday nights.
There were pies with sauce, blocks of white chocolate, sausage rolls with sauce and blocks of dark chocolate - all eaten on the sauce in the block of flats that had become my lair after my break-up.
Sauce-wise there was much frosty cold Asahi and 16-year-old Lagavulin or, when slumming it, Hahn Super Dry and Jamieson Irish whisky - even a stray bottle of Jim Beam Black that some PR chick had sent across town to the Badlands of Manly.
Suffice to say, there wasn't much exercising going on, save a shuffle downstairs to the car to drive the 1½ blocks to the corner store for durries, which also added to my languor, stupor and stupidity.
When I did think of exercising, it just seemed too bloody hard, so much easier to smoke a dart, eat another six chicken wings and "start tomorrow".
I've always been an exerciser, always been somewhat body conscious, so the drift up to 101 kilograms had an impact on my head as well. It made me self-conscious, which also meant I stopped stripping off to go swimming, which meant I did even less activity and ... got ... fatter.
Things began to change when I moved back to North Bondi in Sydney's east and realised every person in the post code still looks like a model or has the money to shag one.
For some reason, a woman named Sarah Davis from Jump PT - the vice-captain of my surf club and a personal trainer - took pity on me.
She insisted I start doing a session once a week with her and it was brutal; at one stage I felt like I was coughing up enough tar to repave the Pacific Highway between Coffs Harbour and Ballina.
This was not because she was smashing me - she eased me into locomotion nicely. It was because I'd become such a slug.
For years now - and despite having a child with one - I've hung shit on personal trainers.
"Why do I need to pay some meathead $70 a hour to point up a hill and say 'run'," was always my mind set.
PTs annoyed me as well; too neat, too chatty, too bushy-tailed and positive. I had little respect for them.
Well, I have to say that's changed dramatically since working with Sarah.
A consummate professional, who's also very positive and chatty, she kick-started my fitness routine simply by being there.
Knowing I was going to see her every Monday, guilt compelled me to do another session on my own because I didn't want to seem pathetic.
And when I did work out with her, she was doing things with me I'd always laughed at when I'd watched other people with trainers, thinking "How's that get you fit?"
Steps. Lunges. The speed skater. Burpees. Little circuits with light weights.
It's amazing the energy you can expend, the sweat you can produce and the complaining you can do just by running through some "simple" exercises.
Slowly, my fitness has built up again, so that, last week, I did four sessions by myself and didn't even smoke durries.
I've been eating far, far more healthily and easing off the piss (no more four fingers of Scotch as a night cap).
I've also dropped six kilograms and am now hovering around 94, 95 kilograms.
I also know I have to get really serious about my diet and training if I want the last six to come off, so I can reach my fighting weight - about 88 kilograms.
What's frustrated me is that I used to strip weight off really quickly, but, now I've hit 40, that last six wants to hang around like the stink in your pants when you've left them wet in the washing machine for two days.
Sarah's been monitoring me with a food diary and I know what I'm doing wrong - too many carbs, still too many beers, and still not fully committed to exercising five days a week.
But it never used to be this way.
Anyway, I thought I'd throw it out there for a Friday and ask y'all how you got the last six (or 10 or two or whatever) off when you got fit?
Care to share?