Ready, Steady, Go! Marathon Training Week 1

This first week's report brought to you by... a hangover and nausea brought on by eating a family sized bag of vegetable crisps in one sitting.  Nausea from crisps only.  Hangover may have something to do with the many, many drinks I had last night to celebrate a friend's engagement.  Ow.  Start as you mean to go on and all that!  I'm sure Mo Farrah starts every serious training regime by getting pissed and trying to explain to a whole room of people why they HAVE to watch Parks and Recreation, because it will change their lives and can I have another sausage roll, please?

So I might have mentioned that I signed up to a marathon.  Once or twice...a minute since I signed up.  

Signed up to what, Becky?

Oh, just a MARATHON!!  On the 14th June, I'm going to be plodding/crawling/prancing 26.2 miles around Liverpool at the Liverpool Rock 'n' Roll marathon.  There's going to be a band at every mile, a festival at the end, and a pretty badass looking medal.  I NEEDS me that medal.  As a compulsive documenter-er..ist(?!) of my own every move (current status: pyjama clad, queasy), I obviously need to plaster weekly updates of my training all over the internet.  

I am crossing everything (including my eyes.  Makes typing Difficult.  Haw haw.  Christ, I'm tired) that I can get through all 16 weeks without losing a limb/having to drop out.  Nervous as chuff right now, because I only got the go-ahead to start running - carefully - again on Thursday, following some ankle ligament stuff that stopped me hopping and skipping about my day with my usual vigor for six whole sodding weeks.  It was terrible.  I've nearly run out of episodes of Parks & Recreation to watch.  What am I going to do when Leslie Knope is no longer in my life?  Who will guide me?  My own moral compass? Pfft!

Anyway, what I was going to say is that I'll be over the moon if get to actually do this awesome thing I've been gagging get did for a while now.  My ankle still isn't exactly my best friend.  The playful scamp keeps pretending that everything's alright and I'm better, and then springing surprise aches and pains on me.  I would say it keeps me on my toes, but that would be a lie.  Because I have to sit down when it happens.  Silver lining is that I'm now unbelievably grateful that I can even do a modest shuffle. Even a sort-of jog is better than no running at all, regardless of how well-stocked Netflix currently is.  Netflix should pay me for advertising it in more or less every single blog post.

Netflix Netflix Netflix.  Can I have an account for free now, please?

...Netflix.

So, training this week consisted of avoiding the plan I've chosen entirely, and just hoping for the best that my ankle will hold out. Up until Thursday, Rosie the osteopath (get me going to a specialist for my sports injury...that I did whilst being sporty!), who I met through CrossFit (so sporty) had prescribed me a healthy mix of no running and picking things up with my crap foot to build up strength.  The latter has actually been quite fun.  Turns out I've got pretty nimble monkey toes (dextrous as opposed to hairy).  I'll do quite well when the zombies come and well all have to start living in trees.  Also, it is now a personal goal of mine to be able to pick up a towel with my toes and fling it up high enough for it to land on my head.  It's important to have things to aim for in this life.  I'll let you know how I get on.

Couple of sessions in, and I'm finally on the mend.  Rosie (off of Swansea Body Kinetics if you're interested and/or if your limbs need tinkering with like mine do) has actual magical powers, and could tell immediately what was causing my mystery pain just from observing me standing awkwardly in my pants.  She's like Mystic Meg, except instead of a crystal ball, she can tell your future from looking at your weird body parts.  I have one hip higher than the other, which is making one of my arches collapse a bit.  My igor-like wonkiness (I might be exaggerating.  Slightly) aside, she's done a great job in speeding up my recovery, meaning I could manage a slow 3 miles on Friday that was almost free of pain.  Huzzah!

Rather than writing week 1 off as a crap one, because I was only able to complete one run and a couple of CrossFit sessions, I'm thinking more along the lines of  

"Best week ever! I managed to do a whole run!"  Was way more than I was expecting I'd be able to accomplish last week.  Here's to 15 more weeks that I expect to be tough, challenging, and a buggerload of fun!  Liverpool, I'm coming for you!  Very slowly and carefully.  Fuck yeah!!

...Now has anyone seen where I left the paracetamol?  My thoughts are starting to hurt again.

 

Oh!  Also this happened a week or so ago.  My nan decided that for her 70th birthday, she wanted her first tattoo, and that all the women in our immediate family (her, mum, my two sisters and I) should get the same one.  Not a big deal or anything, but my nana is way cooler than your nana.  So there.

 

This Month, I Are Mostly Being...Sober.

Hey hi hello....good day!

I have an hour to myself before work this morning - working slightly later, got up slightly earlier than usual.  Plenty of stuff I can get out of the way before my day even begins.  This hour-long vista of opportunity for productivity can only mean one thing:

Procrastinating on the internet!

I just wish I hadn't checked my bank account first.  Grim.  Looks like it's going to be a fairly quiet (translate: sober) month for this one, if I want to be able to get suitably pie eyed in front of this motley crew next month:

http://www.readingfestival.com/line-up

Oddly enough, though, I'm quite looking forward to a month of relative sobriety and peace.  I do love a night out, but they seem to be losing their sheen for me.  I don't know whether it's an age thing, or something to do with the fact that I only have to smell sambuca to transform into the emotional equivalent of a crayon left on a hot hob.

Most weekends, I go through this phase where every bone in my body is jumping around under my skin to get me out "dancing" (more translations: running around with fixed grin, arms rigid in the air) and I'm compelled to send out a barrage of oh-so-subtle "I'm soooo BORED tonight!" texts, in the hope that the people in my contacts list are equally soooo BORED and want to do something like, oh, I don't know.  Maybe just nip to the pub and, y'know, see what happens?

It's pretty much a guarantee that by the end of the night, I will have regretted listening to my jumpy bones, feeling disappointed because my expectations of the wild night of fun times weren't met.  I don't know what I expect....unicorns and American girly TV-esque lollitude where I am very drunk but still oh-so fabulous?  Dream on, sister! *finger snap*

Because I'm feeling old and embittered, here are 5 things about nights out on the tiles that never fail to disappoint:

1. That bit at the end of the night where no one is actually communicating with each other (myself included).  The whole club are just glassy-eyed pissed and looking through each other.  The best kind of conversation you can hope for at 3am is someone talking at you about their insatiable need for a kebab/that "fittie" they can't stop staring at yet wouldn't have looked twice at in the cold light of day.  
2. The sleepiness: I never ever used to experience this, but a wall has sprung up between me and a good time, and I tend to smash my face into it somewhere between 1 and 2 a.m.  Closing time was always too early for me, and I would be chomping at the bit to carry the party on elsewhere, anywhere, as long as I didn't have to go to bed while I was a student.  Nowadays, the witching hour passes, and, laden with knackered-ness and cider, I find myself too proud to admit that I"m feeling a bit snoozy and want to go home.  Instead, I have "dancing breaks" at the bar and end up getting so messy that when it is time to go, I have to actually instruct my legs to work as a team to get out of the door and into a taxi.
3. The pulling: I don't want to sound like a prude or a party pooper.  I have spent my fair share of nights as a teen latched onto some random's face in aid of a good time/a novel way to keep myself upright. We all have.  But when you're looking at it from the outside of said pull, there is nothing wild or exciting about it.  It's just a sweaty, wriggly mass of "well, I certainly hope I don't remember you in the morning, sweet cheeks!"
4. The dancing:  I love a goofy dance-off as much as the next white girl dancing shamelessly to hip hop, but there comes a point in the night where everyone has stopped with the silliness and they have begin to really mean it!  Hips are sashayed, people are doing that weird feel-yourself-up dance that you only ever see in nightclubs... Even while I'm pissed, I'm still inherently British.  This part of the night is where the "dance breaks" start to happen, and when I am "dancing", my exuberance will have melted down to a wobbly foot-shuffle as I pray for bed.
5. The emotions: Oh, God, the emotions!  If I have any insecurities, doubts, feelings previously bravely held in by a stiff upper lip, they will come spilling out of my mouth, because when I'm in da club, it's obviously a perfect time to tearfully inform everyone how fat and unloved I am.  Because that's appropriate, and everyone loves to talk a jibbering wreck down at the ass crack of dawn.  Such fun!  Most people have their own version of these mini meltdowns when they're on the sauce, but more often than not, they have to good sense to pipe down about it the next day and claim to remember nothing the following morning in hopes that any witnesses will follow suit. I, unfortunately, am a dweller.  The shame can follow me around for days.

Well, that was a happy-go-lucky post!  In other news, I am running my first parkrun with the lil sis next Saturday in preparation for the Race for Life event the following week, so pretty excited for that!  If you've not heard of a parkrun before, they are weekly 5k races dotted all over the country for people of all abilities, and they're 100% free!  Take a look:

http://www.parkrun.org.uk/

Happy Friday, all! 

xxx

Picture pretty much sums up last night's festivities. House party followed by boogies at a gay bar. Met some new people, was told by a white, homosexual gentleman that I "dance alright for a white girl" and stroked the inside of a dead hare's face. Standard.

A Fun Game

Okay. So. I'm off the Eng-uh-lund for a night out tonight as the tag-along girl on a lad's (haha iPad keeps changing "lad's" to "lady's" ...sassy little tablet!) night out. I was going to do a post about general drunken behaviour or something along those lines, but I'm now thinking I'll opt for something a little more interactive. You can play along!

Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce you to...The Pisshead Checklist....Gaaaame!

Fine, I'll never win my millions by thinking of names for board games. It's simple. I'm going to list the typical things I've been known to of a night out, and when I get back, I'll tell you which happened. Whoever guesses the most correctly wins..something. Awesome points. Here goes. Will I....?

1. Accidentally offend someone by mimicking their accent. What? People like that, don't they??

2. Buy rounds of drinks for people I don't/ barely even know because I'm drunk. And drunk me doesn't think money is real. And that shots buy people's love.

3. Fall over in my excitement because "they're playing my song!!!" FYI all of Drunk Becky's songs are her song.

4. Decide that I should be someone's wing man and "help them out" by shoving them into circles of strange women.

5. Make bff's with a woman in the toilets that I've never seen before and will never see again.

6. Attempt to make small talk with the bar staff:

What I think I'm saying: "good evening, sir! I hope your shift is a pleasant one. May I have a Strongbow?"

What bartender hears: "hahaha, hi! Have you seen my shoes? I like your face! Drink! Strongbow!! Dancing, hurry HURRY!" *hurls fistful of coins in bartender's direction and clacks back to dance floor*

7. Dance with my arms getting higher and higher as the night progresses until I am just thrashing with my palms to the ceiling.

8. Promptly have a mental breakdown at 3a.m. Kind of like Cinderella. But instead of my dress turning to rags, my thin veneer of sanity falls away, leaving me gasp-sobbing totally unprovoked. Until I hear MY SONG, immediately cheer up and return to the dance floor.

9. Dance-off.

10. Despite the fact that I shrink away from other people's cameras like that witch from The Wizard of Oz (I'm meeeltiiiiing!!) in my sober state, I leap into other people's photographs like I've been let out on day release.

11. Claim that I'm "channelling" a celebrity. So far, I've been Kesha, Beyonce, Will Smith and Bear Grylls. Whoever could be next?

12. All of the above.



......my bet's on number 12.


EVERYBODY LOOK AT MY DRESS!!!

Hangin' Over with Becky Attenborough

Well, I promised you a post on hang overs, so that's what yer gett'n!

I turned twenty five this weekend (yes, you may shower me with praise and gifts even though it was yesterday), and while I can't say that age has brought me much more wisdom than "try to avoid cutting your own fringe where possible", it has introduced me to a glittering new array of hang-overs to enjoy. Long gone are the days where I could pickle my liver and still get up at seven a.m the following day for a twelve hour shift. Instead, I get my ass kicked by my own body for at least twenty four hours (generally, mine are two-dayers; initial hangover followed by a day of total lethargy and low level to moderate depression).

I have compiled a list of the most common hang overs I experience after a night on the dizzy water (vom juice/ fall-over tonic, whatever) and, like the legendary Sir David Attenborough, I will .....

Woah! Hang on...the iPad recognised I was typing Attenborough before I even finished!! How cool is that?! Being a big enough deal to be pre-programmed into Apple's dictionary, that...wow. That blew my tiny mind! I salute you, David Attenborough!

Where was I? Right. So. Like David Attenborough (I only had to type in the first 5 letters... It could have picked "attention" or "attend", but no...), I will describe a few breeds within the hangover species so that you may recognise them better in future. Please be aware that this species often form muttish hybrids and so can come as delightful cobi-hang-overs on occasion. Pain shared is...pain halved? That's a saying, right?

Right??


1. Hangover 1: The Munch Seeker

This particular breed of hang over wakes you up by telling your brain it needs food IMMEDIATELY. And lots of it. But it doesn't just want any food. It will have a very specific combination of food in mind, and will have you devouring anything in your path until you figure out what it is. I had this this weekend. It took me a full day of eating cake, pickles, chips, bread dipped in various condiments, face licking etc, until I realised what I really wanted was a Greggs corned beef pasty dipped in mustard. Duh.

2. Hangover 2: The Weeper

You will wake up feeling fine. Until the realisation hits you that everything is like, just, so fucking SAD!! And so, so unfair! Life is horrible and everyone hates you, and you can't even eat your sorrows away because you're a fat, disgusting alcoholic that no one does or ever will love. Waaaah! Etc. etc.

Then you will have a bacon sandwich and two or three naps, and everything will be fine.

3. Hangover 3: The immobiliser

Don't open eyes. Will hurt. Don't eat anything. Will spew. Don't.... Just don't do anything if you suspect you have one of these. How will you know if you do? Move your eyeballs around under your closed eyelids. Hurty? If so, anything more that you do will hurt ten bazillion times more. Best just lie there and accept your fate until it passes or you die from it. Either way, no more hurts! Win/win.

4. Hangover 4: I'm Fiiiiine!

No, dear, you're far from fine. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but you, naive soul, are still drunk. Or Pre-twenties (in which case *death glare*... Soon, Fool. Soon). Either way, enjoy the numbness while you can. Because you're in for a world of pain.




So...yep. Those are what I inflict upon myself these days every time i decide to indulge in a little casual binge drinking. So far, I have found no better cure than incessant and self-pitying wailing and eating, so I can't offer you too much advice on that front... I could go on and add more colourful characters to the hang over spectrum but frankly, I'm a bit sleepy and feel a nap coming on. Old age, see.

2013: You Can Do Eet!!

Happy slightly-belated-because-I-was-hung-over-yesterday New Year!!!

If your New Year's Eve celebration was anything like mine, you spent it in a friend's house, talking way too loudly and enthusiastically in your loved ones' faces and waiting for the moment you were allowed to set the poppers off. The things that go "bang!", not the...y'know...poppers... It wasn't that kind of a party.

...Mine had a round of The Big Bang Theory board game in it, so it was better than yours. Obvs. Or sadder. Depends on which way you look at it. Whatever, my team won! Give me a big, posh "hooray!"

I have great, big, sexy feelings about 2013. Yesterday, I had nauseous, hungry and sleepy feelings, but a dangerous nap in the bath in the middle of the day (because I like to live dangerously) followed by an early bedtime has left me feeling pretty optimistic today!

One of my favourite things about the new year is making resolutions I almost never...no, wait, never keep. And up until now, (and I think that this is what most people do too) they have mostly been based around making myself a bit less shit. Here are some familiar ones that might overlap some, if not all fellow resolut...ers' (?!) January to-do lists:

* stop biting nails
* be less wobbly/rotund/jiggly/skinny-impaired than previous years
* get off arse and exercise til lady-beefcake style buff
* be less socially inept
* kill less often

Sound familiar? ... The last one was a joke, by the way.

*hastily nudges hatchet behind sofa with foot*

In recent months, I've had the odd epiphany that has brought me to my temporary sanity, and looking at these old, pretty pointless and ultimately stress inducing goals, I've realised that if I were to choose a resolution from such a list this year, I'll do what I always do. And this means sitting on the sofa, wailing and fretting about not achieving my new "goals" for a while, and then biting my nails, stuffing myself with chocolate and sleeping because it's February and I'm not Wonder Woman yet.

This year I'm doing something different. I have allowed myself two achievements that I want bragging rights to by 2014, and neither of them involve changing myself too drastically. And I know that failing to achieve them won't leave me sobbing in my jammies about what a lardy, lazy she-klutz I am. And this lack of pressure makes them feel much more achievable. By the end of the year, I want to:

*run at least a 10k race
* get paid for at least one piece of writing. Any writing.

Easy peasy! And to make me feel even better about this decision, the fates have handed me a bit of luck already! My manager overheard me talking about wanting to write anything at all for money, and instead of firing me on the spot, he's arranged for me to meet a freelancer friend for advice and lunch on Friday. I love advice! I love lunch!!

Mmm. Lunch.

But, seriously, handful of mostly anonymous readers... My soppy bit of advice (you listening, self?!), stop trying to change yourself and just get on with just doing stuff. Less worrying, more scurrying!

2013.... The Year of Doing!

*nods self importantly, gets up with purpose, heads to fridge*

Over Hung

Health Warning: The blog post that you are about to read is devoid of humour, wit or pictures. It is pure self indulgent self analysis. Side affects include nausea, eye rolling, and in extreme cases, temporary night blindness. Read at your own risk.


I got emotional drunk again last night. Seems to be something that's happening more frequently of late. I need to get a grip. I need to stop using the amount of attention I'm getting from my friends as a barometer of how much fun I'll allow myself to think I'm having. And I need to drink less. MUCH less! I can't handle my booze any more and I seem to be missing the bit of the brain that tells you when you've had enough.

Why, when I'm on the dizzy water, do I seek constant approval? What/where does it get me? I don't understand what I'm supposed to do with the "well done, you are a worthy human being. Consider your existence validated, and help yourself to a biscuit" that I seem to crave so badly.

It suddenly strikes me as weird - that I sap so much of my own energy chasing something as totally immaterial as approval. Approval won't change me, my circumstances, my finances, health, or long term well being. So why does everything I do revolve around obtaining it?

Well done, Freud, I think we've had a breakthrough! Help yourself to a biscuit.

Preparation Time!

I'm sloshing with coffee, I can't keep still, and my hair smells like something toxic. Must be the run up to a Black Friday night of fun and festivities! Anyone else braving the crowds and the cocktails that suddenly cost fifty billion pounds tonight as well, I salute you!

.... I call this image "Welcome to the laboratory"

I'm Not Drunk, I'm a Social Bloody Butterfly!!

Christmas dinner with work last night. Nothing quite like watching your workmates happily chatter amongst one another over a well cooked....

Bah, fuck the saccharine blog talk!

Last night was my third Christmas meal/do with the company I've been swapping time for money with since the day I ran out into the car park, leaping for joy that I'd got my first proper job... In front of my now-manager, who, unbeknownst to me at the time, was still stood by the door, probably immediately regretting his decision.

This was the only one I've attended sober. It was bizarre. Good, but bizarre. The food was cowing lush, my workmates were making me do little almost-wees of laughter, and the secret Santa gift I got was so thoughtful it made me squeak.

As I said, I've been nothing short of plastered for the past two such events. Most of us end up being in the same state. Tis the season to run around dance floors with no shoes on with your professional superiors...or something.

It just doesn't feel like Christmas has been done justice if the next day, at least half of the office aren't sweating in front of fans, groaning and wearing sun glasses indoors in the dead of winter. And it's never in vain. The nights out we have are silly, memorable, and nearly always end up in a casino at six in the morning.

But last night was weird. I'm socially awkward at the best of times (a socially inept blogger? Holy crackers, Batman!!), but because I wasn't lubricated in the brainular region this time,I just couldn't bring myself to relax. My posture was so rigid, I looked like I had hot GHDs lodged up my anus for the whole thing. I was hypersensitive, and could feel my brain lighting up like multi coloured fairy lights. At least it kept things seasonal.

I was either talking so quickly that I wasn't forming real words- just sort of chirruping at my colleagues, talking too quietly to be heard, or shouting in mad, overly enthusiastic bursts.

I looked. And sounded. Fucking. Mental.

I'm not sure if it's just a British thing, or If there's a sad truth in my saying that, contrary to my prior belief, I've never got over the fear of big groups of people, no matter how well I know the people in it. I've been more or less convinced that I got over all that shit at sixteen, seventeen....coincidentally, somewhere around the time of my first alco pop (gag).

Hmm. Something fun to think about.

Right after my night out with aforementioned work buddies this Black Friday. Christmas spirit first, over indulgent self an analysis after!

Cheers, all!