Nice shoes

Today I sniffed my hand cream and gave it a little squeeze. It shot into my nostril. I don't know if you've ever tried to snort Nivea, but I wouldn't recommend it.

So Zumba.....all the better for a glass of rose (downed) and a pizza (downed). I would thoroughly recommend this, or any class, if you're not one for commitment when it comes to exercise. The shame of quitting would be too much, so you have to dance on. I did go purple. For my colleagues, who are not aware of just how dramatic my skin can be, this came as a bit of a shock. One did attempt to comfort me - 'At least you can see it's having an affect.'

I did shake it, both like Shakira, and because of what my momma gave me. I did not shake it very well. To be fair, I stood behind a man who moved his hips like a he should be at a strip bar, living a luxury lifestyle from tips alone. My focused face was also a point of much amusement. Is it so bad that my features gravitate towards a central point when I concentrate? Luckily, I am used to this, as Ginger Beard laughs at it, when I watch TV (mostly political dramas like Vampire Diaries).

What's great about when you exercise for one week, is that you can now start dabbling in the below phrases:

'In my spare time, I hit the gym, hard.'

'I feel like I spend my whole damn life on a treadmill. But one does have to tend to the temple.'

'You should go to the gym more.'

You can also call other people fat, because all you have now is muscle.

On the train, this lady let her daughter stand on me, because she was chasing imaginary fairies. And because her quest was so vital, it was okay for her to commit GBH. Parenting skills people!

It was nice to see you today. I like your shoes.

Drive by splash back

When you haven't exercised for three months, and you decide to do a 30minute fat burner programme on the bike, there's one inevitable question:

Have you broken your arse?

And the answer is always going to be - Yes.

Last time this happened to me, there was no one witness my attempt to get off. This time there was a girl, a running a girl. And though her back was to me, my reflection was in the TV screen she was facing. I waited a while, just sitting there, until the feeling returned to my legs. Then I fell to the left, and hoped my feet would remember that they hold my body up.

I considered getting some water. The water was just too God damned far away. I did a very fancy shuffle to the car, and people crossed the road to avoid me.

Tonight is Zumba night with work. If they find my daily conduct inept, wait until they see my dancing. Secretly (because I can be very subtle) I am going to mix the Macarena in with a bit of Saturday night, and repeat for the full hour.

I'm a little bit scared, because this one time, at band camp, my friend said, 'Hey, fancy trying out this dance class?', and I said, 'that sounds like a swell idea, buddy'. And we went. And it turned out to be an advanced class. And I was HUMILIATED. Because while everyone else had obviously been born wearing ballet shoes, and had memorised the full routine from Cats, I only knew how to tussle up my hair, and wind it on down to the floor (after growing up in Oceana nightclub, single). This did not really agree with my personal mantra, of always trying to be awesome.

It's quite lucky then, that my legs still don't work, and just in time for tonight's debacle.

Oh, don't worry - of course I'll remember to write, and tell you just how horrific it really was. You know you can rely on me.

Like the other day, when I chucked a jug of hot water at the windscreen, and Ginger Beard chose that moment to put the wipers on, and it all shot back into my face. And those early morning commuters, once so desperate to speed into work, slowed down to take in the dripping girl, and chuckled behing the wheel. THANKS.

Tall, Venti, or Grande?

Day 3 without coffee. Let's pretend it's for lent and not to prove I don't had a problem. My name's WriterAtLunch and I'm addicted to Starbucks.

It turns out, when coffee-free, I'm not at my optimum. My words trip over each other, like over-excited morons. my thoughts are slow and have to be dragged into being. At exactly 3pm every day, I experience an overwhelming crash. My bowling ball head longs to meet the desk. In the morning, I walk past the life giver itself, Starbucksium, and in the evening, force myself past once more.

Do you see how happy the people are inside? How awake they are? Each one of them coated in a golden glow, greddy fingers round those bright, white mugs, the sweet syrup inches from......

*passed out*

It's too hard! Give me coffee! Aarrggghhh!

ALSO

It turns out that if you bring your gym kit to work, and just leave it under your desk, it creates the illusion of fitness. I spot it every morning, a trainer poking out the bag, and think, 'Good for me, being all pro-active with exercise. At any moment, any moment at all, I could go to the gym'.

It's fabulous, you should try it.

Get to the end of the day, and ask yourself, 'Is today the day?'

Then say, 'No, but tomorrow will be.'

Repeat all week. Make it to the weekend, and feel so very sporty. You're one of those people, who can't stop thinking about going to the gym, and one day, you might actually make it there.

Anyhoo, I'm too busy at the mind gym, trying to construct a personality out of what God gave me. previously, half of myself was made from coffee beans, but I can't rely on that anymore. I'd like to apologise in advance if you run into my substandard self, I'm working on it.

Gymtastic

So I went to the gym last night (I know, I know you can't improve on perfection), and I was attacked, that's right, attacked, by the ghost of Michael Jackson.

Firstly, I'll set the scene. The gym at work is in the basement. It is a place set up purely as a murder location. There is a box of white chalk ready for CSI. There's hardly ever anyone there but me. Which makes me really angry when anyone does think of turning up. It's pretty much my private gym, so stay out of my private gym you bastard!

In my own, private gym , if you want to run on a treadmill, you run at the wall. It's very nice. You have to jerk your neck around every five minutes to make sure you're not about to be murdered, because it could happen at any time. There's a lot of old, dusty machines, the whir of the air con, and you, practically murdered.

So, I went into the changing room last night, and there was a pile of ladies clothes, and some neatly folded pants. I was like, 'Who the frick is using my gym, and why have they removed their pants?!' I got ready, and walked into the gym. There was no one in the gym! Theory one - Shape shifter. (Documentaries like True Blood show that Shape shifters remove their clothes before shifting). Theory two - Invisible woman. No other theories at present time.

I was having an enjoyable bike ride, when 15mins in, all the lights go off. Complete darkness. And what song comes on at that exact second? I'll tell you - it was a Michael Jackson song. I pretended that everything would be okay, and continued to pedal. But then I realise, that even beyond the desperate plea of the room, I was now, technically requesting to be murdered.

Adding insult to injury, many people came in and out of the changing room (which I could only hear). Now, they are either having a quiet shit in the toilet of MY PRIVATE GYM, which means they are all dirty, shitty scum. Or, they are playing clothes swap. If it's the latter, whose clothes does the first woman wear? I was also very concerned that they thought my clothes were involved. Luckily, this was not the case.

I did some very stressful sit ups, and after each one, sprawled out on the carpet exhausted. I kept adjusting my shorts. And I sang along to a lot of Brit-ney. I then realised, after three weeks of this ritual, there are security cameras. Security have always been very friendly to me. Now, I know why.

I am currently developing a new, organic language for everyone. These words have very naturally occurred in conversations and you may utilise them:

Minggyner (pron Ming-gyn-er) (Meaning - that is disgusting)
Use: That is minggyner!

Minggyne (pron Ming-gyne) (Meaning - that's worse than disgusting)
Use: That is 100% minggyne

Piscuit (pron Piss-kit) (Can only be used in phrase: That takes the piscuit! Something which takes the piss, and also the biscuit.

Horrendie (pron whore-end-I) (Meaning - totally horrendous)
Use: What you're wearing is horrendie!

Thanks for listening.

Fit, and don't you know it.

Hello my darlings!

Did you miss me?

I do apologise for the delay in posts. I've changed jobs, spent numerous hours cutting back my tash, and even washed my hair.

In way of apology, I've got a right belter for you. In order to use the gym at my new office, you first need to prove that you won't die if unsupervised. In other words, are you so overweight that at any moment, you may collapse?

I strolled into this 'Fitness Assessment' fearing the worst. I'd not been to the gym in a few months because of a cough. It's astounding how much you can drag out one excuse.

Month one: 'I do want to go, but I can't breathe properly.'

Month two: 'I'm not quite tip top. I don't want to rush the healing process.'

Month three: I'm not 100%. I'm about 64%, and this is not a percentage I can take with me to the gymnasium.'

Ginger Beard accepted them all, and let me stay at home with the crisps. Unfortunately, the crisps stayed with me, on my stomach.

So, here I am, ready, prepared, doing squats in the lift. I blow into a pipe a few times (yes, still part of the assessment), run with a heart monitor on, stretch, and generally try to prove that I am nimble and young.

I later receive the results. Now, I was expecting to be a tad off the mark in a few areas. But rather hilariously (I've had a good chuckle), it turns out I'm a mess.

His summary is that I have too much body fat, need to go on a diet, and have poor flexibility and stamina. To reiterate, page two, 'KEEP YOUR WEIGHT IN CHECK!'

It's okay, I still have some self esteem left. It's hiding under a rock in the garden.

'Great lung capacity.' Woop Woop!

'Not using very much of lung capacity.' Gutted.

(Brief pause to eat sandwich. Realise for second time this week food made by Ginger tastes like Mr Muscle as he has sprayed chopping board. Go buy lunch. Yell at Ginger who has eaten his own poisoned sandwich).

It's alright, my blood pressure is below average! Oh wait, my stretching capabilities are non existent.

I did not go home, and have a brief, yet satisfying cry. And I definitely did not eat out five times last week.

If you need me, I'll be on a treadmill.

Peace and Love xxx

'To die would be a great adventure' - Captain Hook

The highlight of my life for the last few mornings has been the giant rabbit on Wellington Street. Tis true, this vision may be a sign of my rapidly declining mental state, but it's very vivid. The bunny is hopping about the road as I approach, paws (paws?) full of leaflets, and then a very timid, female voice says, 'Morning.' And I think, finally, after years of attempted meditation and botched daisy chains, I am at one with nature.

I've also started to sleep with gloves on, after a beautician grabbed my hands with horror, and we looked upon there poor withered state. The whole thing is much to Ginger Beard's delight, as he got a photo of me, tucked up in bed, white, cotton gloves plump with moisturiser. Yes, while other girlfriends are refraining from shaving their legs and tash, and burping with relish, I'm keeping the good ol' love alive. He said, 'Great one for Facebook'. But he doesn't have facebook. Who does he think I am? Some schmuck who would fall for anything? I wagged my hot finger at him. 'I think not son, I think not.'

For those wishing to follow me around (for surely I have reached A-list celebrity status. I can be found most Monday evenings, semi-drowning my way to fifty laps at the Morley Gym pool. The more people that join in, the less we look like Olympic swimmers and the more we appear as traffic congestion on the M1, catching limbs, arching our backs to avoid contact, growling and splashing away. The Government are desperate to have us all touching one another. Be it on the sardine commuter train, or the thin lanes of the pool, they are eager to see brushes of skin, scratches and shared breath. Is the world shrinking? There doesn't seem enough room for us all even now. I'd have more room paddling in my bath.

In more exciting news, one is off to Thailand for a ruddy good adventure. My suicidal plan is to leave it as flights booked to Bangkok and nothing else, wing it, que sera, sera. The known has become too known. I know how to live in a nice flat, and drive a clio, and wear gloves to bed, but I want to know about Ping Pong shows, and floating markets, and the golden Buddha, and diarrhoea after buying lunch from street sellers. *Sigh*. Tis time to take a risk. After all, better to die in Thailand, than in Butlins.

Exploding Knees

I didn't go to the gym this week, but I did compromise by wearing my gym socks yesterday. I felt considerably gym-tastic. And even though I'm currently paying £30 a month to wear those specific socks, I feel that my fitness level and general health is much improved.

Speaking of how much my life is improving, I've managed to edit three chapters of my novel, and it's only taken me 3 months, which considering they culminate in approximately five pages, is pretty good going. And it all makes me wonder what other miraculous things I could achieve if I just put my mind to it.

I experienced a slight set back in my awesomeness last night, when trying to climb someones stairs. I ran straight into what can only be described as the remnants of a banister. The only upside is that I can add the bruise shot to the collection of photographs I send to my mother, to try and extract her sympathy. I was such a sickly child, that it now takes very severe injuries and illness to illicit a reaction. So far my most successful gambit was showing her how much of my hair is turning white, to which she said, "Oh Gemma, shit."

But anyway, I digress. My new employer's are recruiting volunteers for their annual climb up a massive mountain charity event. I was thinking about attempting this in flip flops. Not only will I be able to justify an investment in several pairs of summer footwear just in time for the upcoming two days of British summer, but the flip-flop sound will be very relaxing for my comrades, and set a steady rhythm for us all.

Last year, someones knee exploded. Will anyone sponsor me if I try to ensure that my knee explodes? To be honest, it sounds like a jolly promising adventure, resulting in a hilarious anecdote. Let me know.

Said The Fat Man

There was a fat man at the gym. I noticed him whilst pedalling on the bike.  His balled up towel was on the floor next to his ankle and he was staring at it with a mixture of despair and disgust. He couldn’t seem to lift any of the weights. He moved onto the next weight machine. I didn’t have my glasses on, but I’m pretty sure he was crying, and having a Facebook chat with his mum. He then went back to the previous machine, tried to lift something, failed to lift it again, glared at a fit man in a vest.

Then, dear reader, he noticed that I was watching him. Now, in my defence, I have to observe the world, and its many tragic things, in order to write about it. I was harmlessly writing a blog commentary in my head, and leaning over the handles of the bike, thoroughly entertained. He then came and sat on the weight machine next to me, in what I originally saw as his first stage of attack, but what I now realise was him trying to drag morale from the fat people sticking together. He sat there, this fat man, watching me, taking comfort in two fat people against this aesthetics obsessed world.

I was a little upset. I looked to the girl next to me, and realised she was hardly using the cross trainer, more exhibiting her lean body across it. I quickly realised that she paid £30 a month to make me feel bad, which is extortionate, even for a recession

I went over to the treadmill. I listened to a bit of Katie Perry.  When I wanted to stop, my brain sighed, ‘well you’ll never look like Katie Perry if you do that’. I wondered why the fat man was still watching me, and hoped he was not now cheering me on, on behalf of the fat race.

I ran. I looked at my heart rate at the end, expecting it to say ‘dead’. Luckily, it was only a few beats off my estimated maximum heart rate, so I was only almost dead. Look at me fat man, you have been mistaken in your analysis. I am not dissimilar to that skinny girl, reading Heat Magazine, and provocatively rubbing her thighs at fit vest man. Go home. Have a burger. Leave me be.

So just to conclude, I’m very athletic, and my possession of a chubby face does not necessarily provide a fat man with the rite to ogle/ follow me, whilst also assuming that my asthmatic breathing combined with his inability to lift his own towel, united us.

Good, I’m glad I cleared that up.