Becky Joins a Globo Gym

"Here at Globo Gym we understand that ugliness and fatness are genetic disorders, like baldness or necrophilia, and it's your fault if you don't hate yourself enough to do something about it."

- White Goodman, Dodgeball, 2004

So, last month I joined a new gym - like, a corporate, people doing weird things to their bodies, encased in machinery sort of gym.

This year, my rubbish foot got so bothersome (for want of a stronger term) that I had to be rescued from the park by car halfway through a dog walk on multiple occasions because it hurt too much to walk the half a mile home. Clearly my plan of action (hope for the best and purchase squashy shoes) wasn't working. 

So, new plan of action - I had an MRI scan that confirmed that my problematic appendage is riddled with plantar fasciitis, chock full of scar tissue and so unsupportive of itself that it'd hold its shape better if it was made of Play Doh. Now, I'm attacking it with weekly trips to the osteopath, who also gives me acupuncture (needles in the soles of your feet feel lovely, don't they? Like a tiny animal gnawing on your nerve endings), and I've put the functional fitness classes, with all its fun jumping and running and whatnot on hiatus and joined a gym where I can do as much low impact stuff as possible. I can't just stop working out - it takes a lot of effort to look this average. Blood, sweat and pizza, bruh.

DW Sports Fitness has everything I expected from such an environment:

• Immaculately presented ladies with swishy ponytails, somehow not sweating on treadmills
• Flocks of flexing bros orbiting the weights section like muscly satellites
• People reclining on machines, repping out text after text
• Group exercisers being instructed, with no hint of irony to "feel the burn"

Tell you what, though - I'm having so much fun! I joined a fully fledged, Dodgeball-esque Globo Gym (go Cobras!), fully expecting having to bored of being rescued from contraptions I've tangled myself up in within a week. Not the case! 

In the handful of weeks I've been a member, I've discovered a tonne of new ways to move! I've practically moved into the building I'm there so often. When I scan my membership card in at reception, I've started putting my head down in the hopes that the almost American-ly friendly staff there don't point out (accurately) that I might need to get out more.

My foot and I are having a jolly old, impact-avoiding time. Here's what we've been up to:

Swimming

Okay, yeah, I've swum before, but rarely for actual exercise. My experiences of swimming up until now have been at school, where I had to wear a fetching plastic cap and ear plugs to protect my ear infection prone, gromet-filled ears from the tiniest drop of moisture. I spent most of that time in the pool doggy paddling about and hoping that this is what the teacher wanted us to do, because I sure as shit couldn't hear what she was yelling. As an adult, swimming only happened when on holiday, floating like a corpse and hoping that maybe if I drowned, the hang over might stop. It's surprisingly pleasant to be able to do laps without a grown up gesticulating wildly at you, and without the desire for the sweet relief of death.

Yoga

Why, oh why haven't I discovered this sooner? My default setting is 'tense as fuck', and I deal with this by writing lists and hoping that'll help me off the mental merry-go-round of "I need to do this, this, this, that, this, this, this..." and "oh, God, my house is on fire, isn't it?" Spoiler - it doesn't. 

Yoga does, though. Turns out that there's very little room for the thoughts when you're concentrating super hard on not falling over/snapping your hamstrings/farting. I haven't farted in class yet. Not even once. Smug face.

Also, the ten minutes at the end of every session where  you lie down in a dark room is great. I love lying down in a dark room. It's my favourite.

Pilates

AKA '50 different ways to feel like you're having a hernia'. Only done one of these classes so far, and enjoyed. Lots of clenching and balancing and whatnot. Again, no farts. Clearly, I'm an expert in yoga and pilates already.

Les Mills Body Pump

This one's been weird. Done it twice so far. The first time I went, I swaggered in and scooped up all the weights because, "pfft, I can lift WAY more than what these people are putting on their bars!" 

Cut to twenty minutes into a billion repetitions of squats, chest presses, push ups and bicep curls, and I'm flinging weights off my bar like they're poisonous spiders. Confusion reigned - the instructor, bless her, kept nodding encouragingly at me as I stood, nonplussed, thinking "WHAT? What do you want from me?!" as the rest of the group moved seamlessly from movement to movement with the music. 

I spent the next couple of days baffled as to how such teeny weeny weights could make me ache so much, especially since most of my time at class was spent looking in bewilderment around the room. I've been back again since, and am still slightly bemused by the whole thing. All I know is that I definitely want to go again, and that after doing only a few push ups to Lean Back by Fat Joe, I resemble a trout having an epileptic seizure on dry land. Stupid mirrored studio.

Spin

Praise be to all that is good and holy, for I have found my jam! 

• Stationary bike that you don't have to worry about getting flattened by traffic on
• LOUD 90s dance music
• Insane person shouting at you to "TURN IT UP ONE MORE NOTCH! GO FASTEEEEEER!!!" as your legs scream bloody murder at you and you slowly go blind from all the sweat in your eyes

YES. FUCKING. PLEASE! 

Sorry, got a bit excited there. I'm just chuffed to have finally found something as intensely horrible/wonderful as running, where I can trip my tits off on endorphins to Rhythm is a Dancer as I turn purple.  It's *sniff* just...*wipes away tear*.


Yeah. So, there we are. I'm off to yoga now to continue my so far successful run of not passing wind in public. Namaste and all that!

 

zzzzzzzz.....

Creepers, Weepers and Burpees - A Roundup

Hangover day two.  Finally starting to see the horizon on which I will no longer be craving pizza and Maoams for every single meal;  A foreign land where I don't respond to every attempt at interaction with me with a "Wuh? Sorry, my ears are still ringing," as I pray internally for the ground to swallow me up.

Had a leaving do with my workmates on Saturday.  I'm told by a few sources that I was "funny", which usually means that I was so trousered that I thought my name was Jagerbomb.  Cracking night, but definitely paid the price!  Main thing that's brought me through resulting paranoid, carb craving fug of my hangover was forcing my body into moving about a bit at my current gym - F.I.T Pontarddulais (click for FITBont's Faceboobs page).  Been going ever since I decided to move to the area.  Still feel like I've cheated on Outcast, but convenience and a lovely crowd and a coach who is the human equivalent of of caffeine ("You're doing GREAT! Nearly finished! Only joking! BURPEEEEES!!!") have made the transition really fun:

"Smile like your arms aren't ready to fall off!"

I love group exercise. Love.  It.  Along with the camaraderie and (I fucking hate the word, but I can't think of an alternative because I lost all my brain cells to cider) banter (*dies a bit inside*), it's nice to have witnesses to prevent the "Nope! Time for cake, bye bye!" moments I'd usually experience trying to work out solo....Which I might have to start doing more of soon, what with my new jerb being a bazillion and twenty five light years away (I Google mapped it) from my house.  For this reason, I'm enjoying the group stuff as much as I can for now, just in case I'm not able to do it as much in the near future.  

Contrary to some people's beliefs, group exercise is rarely boring. As well as the content of the workouts changing all the time, where your head is at (in the case of this evening, it was physically in the gym and mentally at Domino's) changes every day too, which makes for some interesting times.  Here are a few types of workout you can get at a functional fitness and/or Crossfit type class, based on my experience:

The Weeper

 You came to the gym because you've had a pants day.  You're a bit emotionally, erm...squiffy.  You know from experience that you rarely leave the gym sad, because endorphins and science and shit, so you drag your anxious, frazzled self to the Church of Iron to be cleansed.  You get a few reps in.  You and the barbell are one. You are the barbell. Until you aren't.  The barbell is a torture device, designed to somehow get heavier with each movement.  Your coach asks if you want to add more weight to the bar because he obviously secretly hates you and would very much like to kill you.  You wonder whether it's acceptable to sob openly in public. Maybe you could just tell people that you sweat most from your eyes? You hate this.  You can't do this.  You just can't.  Until you can.  Because you just did.  And now you're beaming and high-fiving everyone within range because "THAT WAS AWESOME!!", conveniently forgetting that a few reps ago, you were praying to all and any deities for a swift and merciful death so you didn't have to do it any more.

The Creeper

"Oh, those are all body weight/ kind of simple movements!  I can do all of those things!  This will be a walk in the park!"  You are wrong.  And you are certainly aren't going to be able to walk in any parks (or at any other kinds of recreational grounds, for that matter) for at least a week, because everything hurts too much.  DOMs has you now.  Rest in peace.

The Team Effort

i.e The one where you can't half arse it because people are watching you at closer range than normal. Judging.  Always judging

...Or so you convince yourself as each teammate takes a minute to rasp and wheeze into a water bottle while they wait for their turn.  Oh, you can't wait for your turn to do the rasping and wheezing.  Water bottle is safe.  Water bottle is life.

The "Nice" One

This is where the coach/trainer occasionally throws in a workout where it doesn't leave you trying to decide whether you should stay on this Earthly plane or shuffle on into to light.  I'm convinced that they do this once a month or so in order to trick you into thinking that you're suddenly "really, really good at this exercise stuff!"...right before they plunge you face first into another Creeper the following day.   With a "burpees with sprinting" finisher.  *shakes fist* 

...I had a "nice" one tonight.  Off to F.I.T again Wednesday.  Pray for me.

I Don't Wanna Clean the Bathroom

I am an evil genius.  I've tricked myself into starting a blog post by turning it from "something I should be doing" to harmless procrastination.  I'm sitting on an unmade bed, awash in a sea of clothes that need to be hung up and a bunch of forms that I really should fill in to renew my passport.  Am so smart!

I can already hear my mum telling me that this isn't something I should be celebrating.  Good job she doesn't know that I've not cleaned the bathroom properly for a fortnight either.

Oops.

Now I'm here, I don't have a clue what I'm going to talk about, so I think I'll just waffle at you about stuff I've done until I figure out what sort of life admin I can ignore next that'll make cleaning the house seem like a fun distraction. In the meantime, if you have any bright ideas, please feel free to throw them my way. 'Kay? 'Kay.

The Rowathon

I can't believe this was a full week ago.  Still getting a major hit of the warm fuzzies whenever I think about it.  Last week, an incredible lady at my gym, together the the coaches that run the place organised a 24 hour event where 12 rowing machines were to be more or less constantly on the go.  She wanted to raise money (and still does - I'll pop the link below) for two other incredible ladies in her life who both have families and are both working to kick the shit out of cancer for the second time in their lives:

 

Link for more info & to donate - Please, please donate! 

Some brave souls (translate: fucking nutters) did the thing for 12 hours, or even the whole 24, only occasionally hopping (and later flopping) off the rowers for a quick bite of cake and a banana.  I appeared for 7 hours in total in 3 shifts over the course of the event to have a crack and LOVED it.  Even at 4am, Outcast Strength & Fitness was heaving with rowers.  Music was blaring long after all the local nightclubs kicked out their last punters.  A couple of the gym's members even turned up in their glad rags with cans of Carling after a party and did the best "ha ha fuck it!" style of rowing I've ever seen.  The atmosphere was incredible.  Dozens of people all through the course of the days and night coming in to do this crazy thing.  Just..ugh.  Feelings.

 The face of a person who obviously doesn't fully comprehend what a ridiculous thing this is to be doing at 3am.

Zombies! Run! Spring virtual race

Gah, I love this game!! Got to a point where a run doesn't feel like a run if I don't sort of feel like I might have have my brains eaten at any given moment.  The app that I'm nothing short of obsessed with released its second ever virtual race this month, where you follow a story on your phone and compete with people all over the globe to get a decent place on an online leader board.  Pushed myself to the point of "ooh, might do a little sick!" and machete'd (this is a zombie apocalypse after all) 4 whole minutes off my personal best.  Holy balls!  Didn't even do the little sick I'd fully expect to do.  Also got a very cool t shirt (will show you when I'm feeling less lazy) and medal for my efforts.  Winner.

And I've seen that Wil Wheaton is also into Zombies! Run! and that he also has the virtual race medal and t-shirt, and he's been on the Big Bang Theory, so my compulsion to play it must be cool, yes?  

Shut up, the answer is yes...Double winner.

I've run out of "stuff what happened that I can report" now.  Unless you want to hear about the cool £2 coin I found the other day, or when my dog patted me on the head earlier until I patted him back (ow, my cold, dead heart!), then that's about it!

Got a 10k (yet another 2016 event where I have done little to no race specific training in the run up.  Huzzah! Also heh, "run up"...the irony) race to get did tomorrow at the National Botanical Gardens in Carmarthenshire.  Expecting lots of hills, funky plants and some sort of cake in the cafe at the end.  All in all a good day for the taking. Cake is an excellent full stop on any kind of thing. Or question mark.  Or explanation point, depending on how the thing goes.

I'm off to find the next thing that I can wedge in between me and adult responsibilities now. Did you get any suggestions together like I asked?  Come on, come on!

Brave New WOD

Owmyfuckinglegs!!!

I mean...hello!

So I went to my first of two on ramp CrossFit sessions with Outcast CrossFit Swansea on Tuesday.  Absolutely loved it!  The coaches were a lovely, approachable bunch and far from the scary, serious terminator types I was secretly bricking myself about.  Instead of reducing our apprehensive group of ten to sweating, weeping puddles of our former selves, they focused on teaching us how to move safely (for now - still warily awaiting the session where they suddenly turn on us and morph into scary drill sergeants from Hell).  On Tuesday, this mostly meant squats and kettle bell swings.  Lots of squats and kettle bell swings.

Learned two new things about myself that night.  Apparently I'm a quite-good squatter.  Not quite sure how to process that information.  Spose if I want to wee in the woods any time soon, I can be confident to get away with dry shoes?  Could be useful come Reading Festival next month.

Also learned that I'm a bit floppy for kettle bell swings at the moment.  Couple of the coaches had to teach me how to not stick my bum out and swing my arms about like some sort of slutty disco monkey, which is a movement seemingly natural to me.  Did start to twig after a few goes, so just goes to show I'll be in good hands at this particular gym.  Eventually, I will be reformed of my slutty disco monkey ways and be able to swing the heavy thing around without paralysing myself in the process.  Hurrah!  Here is some irrefutable evidence that I actually went for your viewing pleasure. I'm the cockney pirate in the blue top:

It's been nearly 48hrs since my first proper CrossFit adventure, and I seem to have lost the ability to walk.  My thighs are aching so much that I can't even pass my limp off as excess swag.  I'm chuffed to be doing something that uses enough different muscles than usual to actually cripple me, but it does make me more than a bit nervous about the infernally stupid idea that is Sunday's Tenby half marathon.  Mr Coach Man of Outcast CrossFit, however, has promised my the use of my own legs following Friday's session as there's going to be more "arm stuff" involved.  I hope to sweet baby Jesus that he's right.  I don't much care for my arms, but I'll be needing my legs on the day!

If anyone sees a vertically challenged blonde running through Tenby on Sunday with arms locked rigidly in the air, it's not a new running fad, or zombies.  It's just me.  You can wave if you like, but please understand that I probably won't be able to return the gesture.  Eep!

Let's Take This Outside...or...Why I Hate The Gym

Been a bit sluggish on the post front lately.  Apologies.  I fully blame my sister for introducing me to Girls (TV series, not potential same-sex mates).  My need for this programme is so all-encompassing that I just watched a full episode in between writing this sentence and the one before it.  I cannot be helped.

Sorry, another one happened.  

What was I going to write about?  

Oh, yeah. I went to the gym this week! *muffled fanfare*  

I hated it.  HATED it.  You know when once in a while, you go to an old haunt you frequented in your teen years because it was the only place in town that served booze to minors?  

Yeah, you doooo, don't give me that!  

Well, the gym reminded me of that kind of nostalgia.  You think it'll be fun.  That because you enjoyed it sooo much when you used to go there (at least you think you enjoyed it, otherwise why did you spend every weekend there?), then why don't you still go there now? 

And then you go.  And then you remember why you don't go there now.

Reason I went was because it was especially crappy outdoors, and I had ten miles that needed bashing out at some point this week.  Plus, I'd started my annual weighing up of the pros and cons about getting a membership for doing that cross training thing that I've heard so much about.  

Now, I don't want to offend any gym worshipers - I appreciate that the gym is a haven for many, and a social hub, and I admire your dedication and willpower for going regularly, but Christ, I found it frustrating to be there!  

I went along with a friend who had the same mileage to do.  For the duration of our visit, he happily bounced the miles away on the treadmill, whereas I rage-quit after half an hour (an impressive feat for me - I wanted to break the machine apart with my bare hands after ten minutes), and then half heartedly played on some machines I'm not even sure that I used correctly.

Aforementioned friend found me two hours later, sadly pedaling away on a stationary bike and starting listlessly into my Kindle.

Karl Pilkington - The Moaning Of Life, if interested.

I want to leave myself a list of reasons here of why I hate the gym, so I can avoid further bouts of murder-rage should I begin to entertain the idea of signing up again.  

So. 

 Dear future Becky:

1.  Repeatedly doing the same movement over and over whilst not going ANYWHERE makes your body angry with you, the world and everybody in it.  YOU ARE NOT A HAMSTER.  You do not require a hamster wheel.

2.  People don't like it when you start watching them because you are not moving ANYWHERE and therefore have no scenery to take in.  They do not understand that the reason behind your stares is that you want something, anything to look at that's not a wall or a frosted window.  They think you are judging them/ogling their goodies. 

3.  You don't know how 90% of the machines work.  And yes, you do look like a knob trying to figure it out just because you're too much of a proud wussy to ask the nice staff.  That thing you used to make your arms hurt a bit?  Probably for toning your butt, or face, or something.  Just give up.

4.  It frustrates and irritates you that you have zero control over what music they play in there and that every music video that matches the songs on the TV screens boasts body shapes that you will never obtain, even if you lived in the gym and lived off protein shakes and awesomeness for the whole year.  Even if you lost all of your body fat and got hair extensions, you still won't be Iggy Azalea (sp?!), because you are five foot three and she has at least sixteen feet's worth of legs... Measurement feet, not actual.  Although exotic, Iggy Azalea is not many legged spider creature.

5.  The weights area will always terrify you.  You will hover around its boundaries, wimp out, and then stare wistfully at it as you sadly toil away on the rowing machine until the clicking in your knees drives you mental.

There.  Hopefully that will save future me some time and money.  

Went for a ten miler today in weather ten times worse than what it was on the fateful gym night.  

The wind was howling, the sky was grey and it intermittently hailed and rained.  My feet kept feeling like they were being blown out from underneath me.  I had to actually climb over a fallen tree to keep going along the route I'd chosen, and several people made a point of pointing out how deranged I was for bimbling around in it.  

And I LOVED it!  A normal long run became an obstacle course, and because I was unsure of my footing, splashing through puddles (weee!), and had to keep an eye out on where my feet were landing, the time flew.  And I even got some extra distance in when my hat blew away a couple of times.

And that's another thing.  This was the first run I've ever worn a hat during - It was a revelation!  I had no idea that being buffeted in the face by rainwater and hail was optional.  Hurrah for peaked hats!

I know everyone's different, and they enjoy to exercise (or not - that's okay too.  I love a sofa as much as, if not more than anyone.  S'up, sofa surfers! *poorly executed gang sign*) in a way uniquely preferable to them.  And I reckon it's not until you try something that you hate with so much fervor that it actually gives you energy that you figure out what it is that you really, really like doing.  And I really, really like putting my stretchy pants on and lolloping off out the door and pounding the pavements, whatever the weather.  

Bring it on, wind! I don't fear you anymore!!




.....I really hope that someone skim reading this post doesn't think it's about my heroic conquering of flatulence.  That's another post entirely.

You Disgust Me

Okay, so I'm no angel. I'll be the first to admit it. I'm a double whammy of messy and clumsy, so naturally, I will leave a trail of destruction and debris in my path wherever I go; spilled mugs of tea, crumpled paper, dead bodies....

I will only clean the house when the dirt actually becomes visible (bigger sense of achievement afterwards. Try it!), and my sexiest habit is chewing off my toenails. I know. Come and get me, ladies and gents, I'm all yours! *strips to the waist*

Now that's out of the way, and I feel that I have expressed that I'm not intending to be needlessly judgemental (okay, I'm being a bit judgemental, but hear me out), I would like to introduce you to some faceless but memorable mingers I've come across in my shortish time as a member of a cheap hight street gym (www.thegymgroup.com if you're curious. I'm sure you're terribly curious). I say faceless because I've never met these people face to face, and I have never clocked any of them with my own eyes, but they have had a profound effect on my mental stability and gag reflex. I will now list them in order of mildly alarming to downright ruddy disgusting for you now....

1. Furball Girl - I actually encountered this mystery woman today while I was showering after a post-work workout. I heard rather than saw her. She was in the next cubicle to me and making this weird, animal sound. Sort of....I can't think of how best to describe the sound. It was this horrific, guttural retching and spitting noise. Reminded me of a louder version of when a cat drags up one of those sticky, wet furball things. I left convinced that she was either raised by cats, or hadn't figured out that you don't need to look directly up at the shower head with your mouth open, because, y'know, you don't choke if you do it that way...

2. Ear Wax Woman - This phantom lady turns up about once a fortnight and covers the mirror/hair drying area in the women's changing rooms in mountainous tissue piles. The tissues are always coated in a lumpy orange substance which I only guess is earwax. It could be make up, earwax or scooped out chunks of brain for all I know. The only way I could really tell would be to get within sniffing/licking distance. And I'm certain I'll never be THAT curious!

3. The Tampon Tramp - Yup. I almost don't want to describe this one because it brings on minor PTSDesque flashbacks of walking into a vacant shower cubicle and jumping right out like I had the force of a movie explosion behind me. Buzzing. THIS woman tends to make her presence known, as you've probably guessed, on a monthly basis. By leaving A USED TAMPON ON THE SHOWER FLOOR!! I cannot for the the life of me fathom her reasoning behind this! Is she marking her territory? Does she relax so much in showers that it just, kind of slithers out?? Gross, I know, but I just want to understand! As far as I know, the beauty of tampons is that you can do things like take showers and not have to take them out.... to leave them there for innocent barefoot strangers with freshly gnawed toenails to nearly stand on. Ew ew ew!

... I have a sneaking suspicion that these three sexy vixens might be one and the same frighteningly unhygienic, choking and spitting woman. Just... *shudder*. I wonder if I've smiled at her in passing? Or jogged side by side with her at the treadmills? People like that should have to wear stickers on their foreheads with a cartoon picture of a coiled turd and flies childishly doodled on them so that wider society have the chance wheedle them out and avoid at all costs. Maybe not furball girl, though. I think someone just needs to teach her how to shower facing the other way...

Disclaimer: The 3 minger-teers I mention in this post aren't a representation of the sort of person who goes to The Gym. Most of them are lovely, clean and polite people. And The Gym is as super-dooper as a gym can be - all cheap and obligation-free rolling contracts and whatnot. Go The Gym Group!

But down with tampon tramps everywhere. Or at least someone give me a plausible explanation for that behaviour. I am for reals curious!

I Come Bearing Gift....

Hello, Blogspot.

I have something for you. But first, I want to talk about me. Me, me, me! Bear with.

I am one of life's impossible stress-heads. Though I'm prone to bouts of childlike regression and silliness, I take pretty much everything I do WAY too seriously. Life-or-death seriously. I give too many fucks in most given situations, which has a super-fun side effect of sucking the joy out of everything I do.

I've been battling with my innate lazy creature all month, trying to get it to go to the gym, trying to get it to strive toward forging some sort of career in writing (anything, lord, help meeee!!). Trying to just make it try. I feel under immense pressure (by myself, of course. No one else would be mean enough to constantly berate me like this) to be better at everything I do.

My relationship with the gym is probably the easiest example to demonstrate this. I am not a natural fan of exercise. Once, at primary school, I even "accidentally" poked myself in the eye to get out of playing netball (I don't know either, but somehow it worked!). So, since I realised a couple of years back that I didn't want to be immobile and wheezy by my middle age, I decided I'd better keep up some kind of routine. Ever since, it's been a continual cycle of;

*lolloping around neighbourhood in trainers*

"Yeah!! I didn't die that time!! Soon, I'll be running like Flash if I keep running lots! Nothing can stop me this time!! I won't be anywhere near as bad as last time I took this up. I actually like it now! Hahahahaha!!

Ow. Stitch."



"Wow, I'm still REALLY fucking slow. Why aren't I good yet? How is that pensioner overtaking me??"



"I know, I just need a little break, take the pressure off. If I stop making such a big deal of this, I'll remember how to run for enjoyment...yeah...just a few days..."



"I'm such a fucking fatty! Why can't I stop eating?! I could go to the gym, but the idea just makes me want to eat more cake and cry...I'll go tomorrow. I'll go tomorrow."

*picks some old cheese flakes out of clothing and eats*



"I DON'T WANNA GO TO THE STUPID GYM!!!!"



"Hey remember I used to run a lot? That was fun. Might take it up again..."


See? I'm a fairly regular exerciser, but my bursts of activity come in an infinite loop of hope, optimism, disappointment, attempted self-bullshitting and then crushing self loathing. Not a fun trail to jog, skip then crawl, bleeding and weeping down. I've tried trying really hard(ish). I've tried not caring. And neither method has worked.

So, Blogspot. You've been patient so far, so I'll give you your present now. It's our new new life motto.



.....Half arsed is better than not arsed


(replace arse with ass if American).


Write it on your arms and face, tattoo it on your body, put it on post-it notes and stick them on your mum. This, my friends, is what a genius sounds like! We live in a world whose positive, sugary "you-can-do-it-follow-your-dreams" sentiments work for some, but not all. The idea of everyone always being their best person and trying REALLY hard and doing REALLY well at everything just terrifies me. If I fail at anything I give even the tiniest of shits about, I beat myself into such a pulp over it I'm that barely recognisable for a few days. Too much free time overwhelms me because I think I should constantly being doing something, anything, that will make me a better person at any given moment (i.e not a lazy, cake dribbling sloven). For this reason, I don't know how to relax. I'm incapable. And, to top it off, society tells me I have to be happy and fulfilled, or my life is worth nothing. After all, we could die tomorrow.

What is this horse shit?? Gunning after happier, better, fitter, wiser, prettier, richer, more sociable, more successful all at once just freezes me like a rabbit in the headlights. I care so much about having it all at once that I can't physically move. And I'm fairly confident that there are droves of equally stuck people out there too.

To you, my fellow rabbits, I say be happy being the sometimes-conversationalist who, instead of being the life and soul, interjects with the odd funny comment when they can. If you don't feel like you're making progress on the treadmills, just ponce about on the bikes for a bit. If you aren't a gourmet chef yet, eat a packet of cous cous with lumps of cheese for dinner. Hell, at least you had to boil the kettle to do it! Boiling is cooking, right?

What I'm saying is, don't berate yourself when sometimes you just want to do the bare minimum. Let yourself. I'm not saying don't give a shit. Just do enough to unstick yourself a little. Who knows, you might even end up actually excelling in and enjoying doing those things you avoided doing because they just seemed to immense when the pressure was on. And if you don't? Who gives a fuck? I'm not going to tell you off. I doubt your friends and loved ones will. You can't fail at life, because the only one making you feel so crappy about not hitting every single target is you, stupid.

Half-arsed is better than not arsed.

Amen.

5 Reasons I'm Not Going To The Gym Tonight

Because the gym police can't get you if you have reasons...

1. I thought so much about going to sleep last night that I forgot to fall asleep.

2. My car decided of its own accord to steer abruptly away from the gym, veering off in the direction of home instead. Weird, right? I think Butch (my powder blue Citroen C1 - I loves me an ironic name) might be distantly related to Herbie.

3. Hungry trumps need for exercise. Always. Except if you're one of those people that go on Channel 4 documentaries because they have to be air lifted off their sofas. Maybe then exercise should win sometimes...

4. I spent an entire afternoon looking through pages and pages of website for small, infuriating typos (for work, not fun). The last thing my brain needs now is to watch my moon white legs pumping away in the reflection of the gym's window for 30-60 minutes.

5. I just don't wannaaaaaa, okay??



Phew. Thanks for being so understanding, you guys. For letting me off the hook, I think I'll let you share some of my ice cream.

SMARTIES!!!

Whose stupid, idiotic and just downright INSANE idea was it to go to the gym this morning?! Getting up TWO HOURS earlier than needed before work. Who in their RIGHT MIND would actively choose perspiring and panting on a treadmill like a sweaty hamster over sleep?

Oh yeah! Me. Knob End.

Before today, I've been gymming it for the last three nights pretty successfully (for me). I'd even venture as far as saying I've been enjoying it. Gasp!

I've enjoyed being anonymous in a big organism made of whirring machines and human movement, disappearing into my own little world (even more so than normal).

But who was I to kid myself that I'd enjoy doing that in the MORNING?!

Mornings are for hugging, foraging clumsily for food and muttering demonically into mugs of coffee. Sometimes watching reruns of early Batman episodes if you can muster up the energy to watch Adam West run around in Lycra. But that's it.

My body refused to put in any effort this morning. Despite my brain screaming at it to stop glaring angrily at my reluctantly shuffling feet, it insisted on behaving like a tantrumming toddler being dragged round the shops.

"Come on, we're going out."

"No. Don't want to."

"Well, we're here now, just a little bit further..."

"NO! Want Smarties!"

"It's eight in the m-"

"SMARTIIIEEEEEES!!!"

And you know what? I don't blame you one bit, you poor, hungry, confused, sleepy body. I truly don't. People who go to the gym in the morning are either freaks who don't sleep so they don't have to deal with the horrors of waking up, or they're robots. Robots designed by the gym to make us flabby little muggles feel terrible about our burning desires to lie in and mash left over pizza into our faces at 7a.m.

Well, I refuse to be sucked in! From this day forth, I shall only exercise when I've built up a nice, big mound of anxiety related stress, accumulated by spending a whole day pretending I'm nicer than I am to people I've never even met on the phone (my job - not something I do with the Yellow Pages and too much free time) before I even make eye contact with a treadmill. I will only move a muscle when I'm feeling suitably killy. That way, I will be getting healthful benefits and protecting wider society from my stabbiness.

Now, then, body. Let's go find us some breakfast.

*hopeful squeak* "Smarties?"

Fuck it, why not? Smarties.

I Am Charlie Sheen

This morning, I sulked like a toddler. I hid under the quilt until I had to be coaxed out with coffee and food by the live-in boyfriend (we shall call him A. Because it makes me sound all bloggy and him like an exhibit, or a specimen). The reason for my tantrum was that I've convinced myself that no amount to trips to the gym will get me running a mile in under 10mins. I have nubby little legs and lungs apparently borrowed from a 4 year old smoker. I was told to drink my coffee and to stop being so bloody defeatist.

I used to be Sheen-esque in my abilities throughout school. Winning. All the time. I competed in everything that didn't involve too much physical exertion...I may have been a winner, but Wonder Woman I was not. I did shit that I would never have the lady balls to do at the ripe old age of nearly-twenty five. Here's some stuff I won before my confidence was castrated:

* poetry competitions
* art competitions
* story writing competitions
* poetry recitals, in Welsh

The last one is the biggest WTF of the bunch for anyone who knows me now. Bearing in mind that the only way you could get me onstage now is by clonking me on the head with a bat and dragging me on, I used to not only get up on stage, but also stand in front of big groups of grown ups and belt out verse at them IN WELSH! Not even my first language!! And I used to fucking WIN at this!!

And now I'm moping because I don't have the rights to brag about being able to run a mile in under 10 minutes. Something I've not even attempted!

I write pages and pages and pages of fiction, poetry etc and never get round to editing them so I can send them away for publication, just in case some nasty publishers don't like them. Fuck that!

I will bet myself actual money - because, that way, I will always win (winning!), that if I actually get off my fat, many arse and, y'know, TRIED, I'd do alright for myself.

I'm obviously still an insufferable show off, because why else would I blog? And I'm still just as jammy - I just don't try to recognise it anymore:

* I got a 2:1 degree with minimal effort
* I rent a house for peanuts and spend the spare change on myself
* I live with a boy, who, after a year, still doesn't seem to realise just how many annoying habits I have (shh, don't tell him!)
* I work with people I really, really like
* I'm a Caucasian, Western female, who is at least acceptable looking to wider society (I.e people don't run away shrieking "Godzillaaaaaa!!" upon my approach.
I'm already winning at life, so maybe, just maybe, with a little more effort, I could storm this motherfucker!

I'm off to the library to start editing my world-changing novel.








.... I'll think about the gym.