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!

What Butlins Taught Me

How was my weekend, you ask?  

I'll show you:

....yup.

Went to Butlins on a hen do.  I adore the place. If you're not from Britain and haven't heard of it, it's a venue/holiday village thing where:

a.  Parents with kids (what other kind of parents are there, Becky? Wake up, dear!) who aren't posh enough to jump on a plane visit on a yearly basis visit so that they can get pissed at the always-open bars while their children run wild and are loosely controlled by staff in red coats (...called Redcoats), who are hysterically trying to grin and perform their way through severe hang overs.  In retrospect, I feel very sorry for whoever had to wear the Bob the Builder costume all day.  It must have reeked of discount vodka breath and kebab farts.

b.  Grown ups visit for themed no-children-allowed weekends (because kids would leave with full blown PTSD if they were allowed to witness one) to dress up in fancy dress and drink until they genuinely believe they are in the decade that weekend is dedicated to.  This weekend, I was a school girl in the 90's.  I am channeling my inner "Perry off of Kevin & Perry Go Large" in the above image.  I don't have time to explain Kevin & Perry today.  Maybe in another post.  Or you could Google it.  It's sort of like a more embarrassing, British Wayne's World but with gratuitous zit popping and a poo in the sea.  High brow filmage at its finest.

I'm so pleased I was invited to this hen's weekend long, liver pickling event, because every time I go to Butlins in Minehead, I feel like I'm visiting the mother ship.  My family would occasionally go while we were growing up, and I LOVED it there.  Middle sis and I would have free run of the funfair, arcades and kids' shows while our family and family friends would get merrily tanked up and wave us on our way.  I'm pretty sure little sis learned to crawl in one of the chalets.  And if I ever convince her to come on an adult weekend now that she's eighteen, I'm certain she'll continue the tradition of scooting around on her hands and knees to get places, albeit for a different reason.  You can't turn around without being offered a shot of something strong,sugary and unnaturally coloured.

Butlins in all its wonky, sometimes scruffy, boozy, silly Britishness helped shape me as a person (for better or worse...), so I'm going to share with you a few life lessons I've taken from my visits there both as a child and an adult:

1.  The best time to ask your parents for something they'd otherwise say no to is when they're a bit tipsy.  

"Can I go on that ride?"

"Yeah, go ahead!"

"Can I have some money for the arcade?"

"Crack on, love!"

"Can you sign this bit of paper so I can get my nose pierced?"

"Sure I can!"

2.  Once you've been to Butlins, any holiday that doesn't have something at least a little bit crappy about it doesn't feel like a proper holiday.  I'm sure the food has improved since I was treated to full board visits in my youth (because we were fancy like that), but I would cheerfully guzzle down scrambled eggs that looked and smelled like fetid frogspawn in the morning before jaunting back to our chalet to have a quick shower where you BY THE LOVE OF GOD, DON'T TOUCH THE WALLS IN THERE!  AND WEAR FLIP FLOPS OUR YOU'LL DIE!!"  Everything's been done up in the accommodation there now, but I won't lie - I was kind of pleased last weekend when a friend and I got the one room where the light flickered constantly in a raver stylee.  It's like they knew I was coming and wanted to make me comfortable!  I was home.

3.  If you like privacy, an adult weekend is not for you.  Strangers wander in and out of each other's accommodation pretty freely.  Mostly because most of the buildings are a confusing maze of identical..ness.  In our case this weekend, we saw a streak of rainbow colours and hair flash past the living room door.  It turned out to be an overexcited stag wearing little more than pants (thank God), braces, a tutu and more body hair than you'd get if you stuck both my pets together with duct tape.  He turned out to be non hostile, so we invited him in and promptly gave him a make over and some beers.

4.  If you want to be a human sized strawberry, stripper cop or overweight batman of an evening, then, my friend, it is your God given RIGHT to be so.

5.  No matter how tiring, cold or malnourished you are by the end of your visit, you are guaranteed to feel nostalgic and sad the second you turn your back on the place.  I remember leaving once as a kid and taking in the white peaks of the pavilion, the lights of the fairground and the sharp, stabby winds blowing off the sea and gagging to get back to simple, straight forward, seaside fun.

Til next time, Butlins.  Til next time.

*salute*

Christ, I'm tired.

Half Arsing Llanelli Half

Finiiiiiished!

Those jubilant, slightly shocked faces belong to three people who attempted to run the Llanelli Half Marathon on little to no (edging more towards the "no" end of the scale) training miles and actually managed to complete the bugger.  It is possible! Now I know that when (not if.  It's going to happen and we have to be prepared) the zombie apocalypse comes, I will be able to evade the undead for miles and miles and miles.  Provided the undead keep it to a slow shuffle with frequent walk/limp breaks.

Last night, due to the near total lack of actual preparing for this race, I felt as though my knees had been subject to a light "tickling" from a combine harvester and my arse was making its complaints known by sending "Ow. Ow. F*!!*#g OW!!" impulses to my brain each time I stood up or sat down, but the warm fuzziness of a magical morning did something to ease the fact that it hurt to move.  Or keep still.  Or just sort of have a lower body.

Here are some memories that I have of the event for your perusal:

Pre race: Why aren't I nervous? WHY?!!

Spent a good chunk of the morning dissecting my total lack of nerves.  Usually on the morning of a half, I spend it worrying about what I've eaten, whether it will be hard (to which the sane answer is "yes. You have chosen to travel 13 miles on foot.  Yes it will be hard. Div), if I've forgotten something important like my legs, whether this will be the day my body says "enough now!" and adopts the fetal position until it knows the event is over.  

Yesterday morning?  Serenity.  The sun was out for the first time in what feels like months.  I had no expectations of myself speed-wise (which is just as well as the highest velocity I was going to get on that amount of training was akin to Mr Blobby fighting through a wind tunnel).  I felt good.  Relaxed. So, naturally, I worried about the fact that I wasn't worried, thus successfully bumping myself back up to my usual, comfortable level of mild neuroses.  Ahh, palpitations.  Much better!

Don't leave me hanging, bruh.

My friend Gareth (off of the left of the top picture, in red) was full of enthusiasm the moment we broke through the start line and began to bimble along our merry way.  He gathered speed ahead of me, taking in the festive atmosphere and the modest crowd of onlookers.  He went to high five a small child as he passed, as he knew that would inevitably inspire it to tackle a half marathon of his own one day.  Gareth would be his hero.  

Small child remained motionless, giving him a look that way halfway between "STRANGER DANGER!" and "Do not touch me, peasant!"  

Priceless.

The coastline

Aw, man, the views!  The last time I did this race was in 2014, where everything was grey and I was being rained on sideways.  It's hard to take in the scenery when you have rain water shooting into your ear holes and filling up your skull.  The Llanelli coastline is gorgeous in the sunshine.  All rocks and sand and stuff.  Well, you've seen a beach before, haven't you?  It was like that.  Beaches are nice and they are nice to look at.  When you're sweating from every orifice and looking for ANY distraction from counting down how long you have left to run (spoiler: the answer is always "FOREVER!!"), a thought like "ooh that's pretty!" is about as deep as your brain can go, and you are grateful for giving your eyes something to do other than looking for the next sodding mile marker.  After 6 half marathons and one full one, I've come to the conclusion that mile markers are the work of Satan himself and should be banned from races.  They are only there to make grown ups in stretchy pants want to cry.

Mile 7

I changed my mind.  Mile 7 is the work of Lucifer.  I think they should cut out mile 7 if they must insist on markers, like lots of office buildings have a 12th and 14th floor, but not a 13th.  As is usual for me (don't know if this applies to all half marathoners.  Would be curious to find out), realising you're over half way does naff all to spur you on.  Quite the opposite.  In Llanelli, I was happily shuffling along with the rest of the front-of-the-back-of-the-pack-ers (mah people, mah homies), convinced I was invincible as I'd not needed to slow to a walk not even once yet, merrily flipping the race the finger to show it who's boss:

 

And then...mile 7.  Every bloody time.  It hits me like a trowel to the shins and turns me from "Ha, I could run forever!  They could mine my sweat to create everlasting batteries!  I will be rich!" to I'M GOING TO RUN! No, I need a little walk. I'M RUNNING AGAIN- Oh, no, wait, I need to walk, I'M..no, false alarm, I need another walk. Goddamn, it, mile 7!

Is anybody out there?

Llanelli half is a relatively small race. 1,500 participants when sold out, I think.  It gives it a lovely, family feel, but it also feels like said family has taken a sneaky right turn while you weren't looking in a bid to lose you because you're cramping their style.  At one point, I looked ahead of me and behind, and convinced myself that I'd ambled off course down a random cycle path by accident because I could see no other human life forms anywhere.  Thankfully, we were all just very spread out and the cluster of runners I'd following like the lame calf of the herd were just around a bend I couldn't see.  


All in all a good morning!  I'm desperate to cover that distance again and finally slay mile 7 by not immediately shuffle-run-hobble-walk-ing from that point onwards through to the end, but that would involve actual training and planning.  Ew.  We shall see.  I wisely booked today off work because I'm an unlovable, grumpy shit the day after a half.  Is there such a thing as a post race hang over?  Either way, I'm going to slouch over a big coffee now and glare out my living room window at the incessantly cheery sunshine now.  Byeee!

"We survived!!"

Living in Sin: What I've Learned So Far

Hallo!  Having me the usual kind of a Sunday night.  Winding down after a long day of stressing about the fact that am stressing on a Sunday.  Hiding from the inevitability of another pending Monday behind my laptop as the manboy shoots strangers online in his army camouflage onesie.  I would take a picture, but I'm worried that if I do, manboy will stop feeding me and I'll have to go back to making weird pickle filled sandwiches a la my student days.  Gherkin, ketchup and Branston pickle sarnie anyone?  I don't have butter, but I could substitute mayo.  It's kind of the same stuff, right?

I find Sundays stressful.  I wake up worrying about the fact that I only have one precious day of weekend left.  An internal rage then ignites within me because the dishes I didn't do on Saturday (who does dishes on a Saturday?? Ick) haven't been cleared away by the Weekend Elves (mine seem to permanently be on strike.  Maybe I should start paying them.  What currency do you think elves prefer? Euros?  Werthers Originals?  The teeth of my enemies?).  Then I hate myself because it's suddenly nearly 3pm and I've achieved nothing more than a quick food shop in which I've followed A around Aldis, sneaking cool notepads and bags of popcorn into the trolley while he does the real shopping so we can survive without getting rickets.

I think my problem is that I simultaneously think that Sundays should be both super relaxing and mega productive.  One half of my brain thinks that I should, run, write, clean, visit family, catch up with friends, take the dog for an adventure and many, many other things that require more than a single day's worth of hours.  The other half thinks that eating crunchy things in front of reruns of First Dates and Gogglebox with the curtains drawn is the pyjama clad path to spiritual weekend nirvana.  Usually I end up doing neither of these options and just have a bit of an all day tantrum, a nap and then I eat cookies and feel grumpy about wasting a whole day.

 "Chin(s) up and eat your chunks, Chunk!" 

I would find a filter to make me look a bit less Dawn of the Dead, but 

1. I can't be arsed &

2. My hands are full of cookies

I could learn a thing or two from A.  He gets up when he wants, faffs about in front of the TV for a couple of hours, does the shopping and then recognises that leaving the house even once on a Sunday is a brave feat and uses this as an incentive to chill out some more.  We've been living together now for four-ish years.  I think.  The only anniversaries I remember are the dates on which we got our pets.  It's good to remember the important things.  I've done the obligatory student house share thing in my time (and loved it!), but A's the first person I've ever cohabited with alone.  Not quite alone, but he's the only other biped in the house at least.  Living in sin has been an interesting experience so far, and it's taught me a lot of things in our almost-I-think half decade of sharing a fridge.  I mean house.  Here are a few examples:

1.  The longest you can stay angry at someone depends on how recently you've eaten.

It's totally justifiable to silently hate the back of someone's head for not reading your mind (and glares) as you aggressively hoover at their "gaming chair" (fold out camping chair that somehow survived Reading Festival) to make the point that they should be cleaning too, as the nuclear fallout-esque state of your house has started to bother you first.  It's also totally justifiable to do a total u-turn and decide that he is an angel sent from heaven as soon as he utters those three words every girl longs to hear...


"Want some lunch?"

Yes, you will inevitably go back into passive aggressive aggro-clean mode when you realise that he utilised every pot, wok and skillet to make a simple bloody cheese sandwich, but that's beside the point.

2.  If you don't rush things, you're much less likely to smack your head on open cupboard doors, shelves and walls.

One of us has considerably less cuts and bruises than the other because they don't feel like everything needs to be done right this second or their head will explode.  Guess who.


3.  It's okay to eat terribly if the other person is doing the same thing.

Takeaways, family sized snack buckets of chocolates and meals the size of a human head are all fine as long as you can shift some of the blame onto the other party.  The inevitable slide to obesity is much more fun if you have someone to hold hands with on the way down.  Wheeeee!

4.  Last one to bed does the boring stuff!

My bedtimes are getting earlier and earlier.  Both of ours are.  Since getting the dog, the list of boring adult crap we have to do before hitting the hay is getting longer.  Turn the telly off.  Take the dishes out. Force the cat out the door if he's not looking too cute while he's sprawled out and unconscious because "Awww!  I can't put him out when he's like that!"  Freeze your tits off in the garden while the dog takes his time chewing thoughtfully on each individual blade of grass before deciding on a good place to void his bladder.  Try to figure out where the totally black dog has disappeared in the pitch dark garden and somehow coax the invisible creature back inside.

If we're both starting work at the same time the following day, it becomes a game of bedtime chicken.  Whoever manages to get out "goingtobednowokaygoodnight!" first and promptly leg it up the stairs gets to avoid all that bullshit.  I'll be going to bed at 4pm before long if I can get away with it.
  
5.    Box sets are more fun when you've got someone to talk at.

Actually, I'm not sure if A would agree with this one.  I see TV time as social time.  It's a time to vent all of my opinions and try to get to know the bestubbled male that shares my sofa by asking his opinions on everything too.  For bonding and shit.

"I don't think I'd have shot that guy in that situation, even if he did make off with all the drugs.  Would you?  Ooh, I like her hair! What do you think? I think I'd survive in prison by just being nice to everyone, that way I can't make any enemies.  But then again, they might steal all my shit because they'd think I'm soft.  What if I carried a shiv with me? Just to make a point.  Ha, that was almost a pun!  I could make it out of a toothbrush and - wait, what did he say?  Who died?  I missed that bit, what happened? What's the best way to sharpen a toothbrush?"

"Hey, it's that bloke off my sofa!!"

Happy Sunday!  I hope yours was relaxing and/or productive as opposed to a stress-sweat-and-naps nightmare like mine.  And if your Sundays do go anything like mine, let me know so I can feel marginally less mental.  PLEASE TELL ME I'M NOT ALONE!!

*sobs into cookies*

'kay, bye.

Fitness Fibs - Lies We Tell Ourselves

Two things that made me cringe when I originally wrote that title:

1 - I worried it makes me sound like I think I'm some kind of "expert", which would translate to everyone else as "unqualified douche nugget who probably can't even outrun a tranquilized sloth in a weight vest."  This only makes me want to write this post more, because clearly I need it just as much as, if not more than, anyone else.

2 - I originally wrote "Lies Women Tell Themselves," which is ridiculous because I don't think only those of us with certain chromosomes are entitled to feeling a bit insecure about our abilities.  Unless I'm totally wrong and "The Men" are just pretending in order to somehow get the better of us women folk in a way that we are too distracted by knitting and chocolate to grasp. God.  Men, huh? 

That was a joke.  I like men.  You guys are great. *Eyes you all suspiciously*

I should probably tell you what this post is about now.  I've been an enthusiastic (and oftentimes unenthusiastic) casual/amateur pursuer of fitness for a few years now.  I've transformed from girl who fakes "hurty ear" as an excuse to get out of P.E...actually, hurty ANYTHING to get out of P.E in into adult woman who enthusiastically turns down Friday nights out on this piss so she can go hang out at the gym on Saturday morning until it feels like her lungs are coming out of her butt.  She can also bench press a bus.

I lied about the bus.  Point is, I do some kind of physical activity (running and/or CrossFit) 3-5 times a week (depending on the week) and even though it took me a long time to get here, I now love it almost (almost!  Let's not go crazy) as much as I love cake.  I'm not super fit.  I'm not even sure if I'm average, but I've got to a stage where I know that I will come away from that day's workout feeling happier, saner and stronger than when I went in.  

 Image 1 - How I used to spend my Friday nights (now how I spend the odd Saturday night instead.  What?  I said I'd changed a bit, not had a personality transplant. Jeez.  Go get me a beer)

Image 2 - How I mostly Spend my Saturday mornings now instead of crying because I want pizza and a cuddle.

I haven't always felt this way about exercise.  On some days, I still don't, but those days are getting rarer.  On these "off" days, I find that I lie to myself (like that one about the bus.  Maybe I could bench a toy bus though.  So technically not a lie?), but at least now I know well enough that my brain is just telling me fibs again in order to get me back to the sofa sooner, which is closer to the cake. I'm sure it means well.  It's hard to stay angry at a body part with such a strong devotion to getting me cake.

From personal experience and speaking to others, I think a lot of these lies are universal barriers to living more actively, so I'm writing them down in the hope that people like me will see them and realise that they're just dastardly fibbers too.  Here goes:

1.  I'm not a natural
Who is?  For every Usain Bolt there are fifty bazillion gajillion (fact.  I counted on my fingers. I have a lot of fingers) "regular" people who can only learn something and become competent at it by doing that thing over and over and over again.  And then again some more after a snack break.  Pretty sure even Usain has to keep doing the sprinting thing over and over and over again in between filming Virgin Media ads too.  It's not glamorous or easy, but that's just how it is.  And the great thing is that once you "get it" on your bajillion and twelfth go, you can celebrate that little bit harder because you know how much work you put into getting there.  Fuck it, throw in a victory dance if you have the energy!  I did one push up a year or so ago and didn't shut up about it for a week.

Did I mention that I can do a push up now?  Sometimes I can even do two!

2.  I have to be fit already to keep up with group workouts
Nope.  You have to be willing to turn up and do what the workout, even if you come last.  And if the class/gym/running club you've gone to get all sweaty with is any good, coming last will be applauded because you stuck at it until the end.  Also because you are a badass who worked out for longer than everyone else and still had the balls to not take the easy route and give up.  As long as you're doing as much as you can do, everyone there will know that you've tried just as hard as them.  If not harder. Go you and your balls!

3.  I don't look the part
If you have at least a semi functioning human body, you look the part. In the running club I used to go to, I often used to think I looked like a three legged pug chasing after gazelles. When I started CrossFit, I thought I looked like Tim Burton drew my arms on in comparison with some of the gun shows on display there.  I don't look that much different now, but I don't care because I'm constantly finding out I can do things that I previously thought I couldn't.  No one is judging you for how you look. 

4.  I've been doing this a while now and I'm not getting "good" fast enough
First of all, what does "good" mean?  How do you quantify it? "Good" is such a vague notion that if you strive for this alone, you'll never feel like you're enough.  This is the one I'm worst for and I continually have to "logic" myself out of it.  When you see people progress at a faster rate than you, or worse, you see someone who is totally new at what you've been doing for ages best your efforts right away, it can be heart breaking.  You have two options here; Give up, go home and cry into some ice cream or remember that everyone is different and you can probably do something that they covet...and then go happily eat some ice cream.  Either way, you get ice cream.  What was the point I was trying to make again? 

 Small weights, big improvement considering I couldn't lift a plastic bar over my head without getting a bit of a wobble on (not an exaggeration) 2 years ago.

5.  I can't do it
Unless it's reciting the Russian alphabet backwards and simultaneously inventing time travel (Wait! Do you think that's how we can crack time travel?  Who speaks Russian and how can I copyright that idea? Dibs on that idea!) yep, you can.  Slow down, concentrate on doing what you're doing well and safely (ask a coach/trainer/magical gym genie if you're not sure how) and keep going. You'll get there, if only so you can turn around to your past self and those people who are in the same place you were and tell them that it's 100% possible.

I've nicked  borrowed all the photos (bar the "pint cow" one) in this post from Outcast CrossFit Swansea's Facebook page.  If anyone from the Swansea area wants to join in in having sweaty times (ooh, matron!) with a bunch of people who are so supportive that you'll end up regularly going on the internet to spout about fitness despite being heavily under qualified to offer fitness advice, this is a great place to start.  It's not a cult, honest.

Outcast CrossFit - Swansea

 "One of us!  One of us!" 

27 Wise, Wise Wisdoms

It's mah burfday in a few days, so am celebrating the fact that I've managed to get through another year without taking an anvil or grand piano to the head by writing my annual "Wise, Wise Wisdoms" post to tell you about the many, many important things that I've learned from birth, all the way up to right this second.

Right this second, I am guiltily stuffing melty (because I'm too impatient to wait for them to set) corn flake cakes into my mouth and swigging beer.  Probably not the actions of someone who is truly wise and all knowing, but you'll have to make do.  Or you could do an Amazon search for deeper musings.  But you'd have to pay for those, and proper books take so much longer to read, so...

Anyway, if you have to go, can you get me another corn flake cake on your way out?  Thanks, pal.

For those of you still here, here we go.

*rolls up chocolate smeared sleeves*

1.  If you have any kind of fitness regime, you can attribute any weight gain to "muscle is heavier than fat."  Even when you're suffering from pizza burps and reaching for the crisps drawer.  Denial is a beautiful thing.

2.  Acquiring a dog is more like having a child than you care to admit (despite your total lack of experience with children).  You have to remember when you fed it last.  Lie ins are no longer a thing, and you spend a surprising amount of time contemplating the consistency of and collecting poop (for the bin.  Not for actual poop collection).

3.  Beloved celebrities die with increasing frequency as you get older and every time someone like Rik Mayall/Robin Williams/Terry Pratchett buggers off to the VIP party in the sky, you will feel a bit of your soul go with them.  You will genuinely start to worry about how you'll manage to hold your shit together the day Jim Carey/David Attenborough/Harper Lee etc snuffs it.  Ugh.

4.  The closer you get to 30, the more shameless you get about your Bridget Jones-esque obsession with pop psychology books. Especially ones which are thinly veiled self help books.

5.  You are and always have secretly been Bridget Jones.  Those books are prophecy and not fiction as you originally believed.

6.  Jeans are the devil.

7.  Leggings are the way.  The ones that aren't see through anyway.  Those leggings are most definitely not the way.  The pants I buy aren't pretty enough for those.

8.  I have come to believe (furiously hope) that one day, active wear will merge with every day wear, so that we get to wear stretchy, luminous clothes all year round and never have to get changed for the gym.  The world will become a comfy, pretty, moisture-whicking place, and everyone will be nicer for it because their trousers are no longer leaving unforgiving seam marks in their flesh.

9.  Getting up at 5am for work isn't the living nightmare I thought it would be.  Being up at that hour grants you a certain smugness at having a more "up and at 'em" attitude than the actual sun.  Stupid, lazy sun.

10.  Twice daily dog walks aren't a chore.  I enjoy being walked more than the dog does.  I think that if these walks were to stop, I might start chewing the furniture.

11.  Despite years of people telling me how good Star Wars is and choosing to ignore them, I was still surprised that I liked them.  A lot.  Especially the old, old ones.  So much so, that I've asked to be taken to see the new one on my birthday.  Why didn't anyone tell me they were so entertaining?? Oh, wait...

12.  You must always have at least one smelly candle in the house at all times. I haven't figured out why yet, but I think this might be the secret to being an adult.  Or the secret to always being moments from burning your house down.  Depends how you look at it.

13.  The moment I tell myself I'm going to write anything longer than a blog post (i.e "that bloody novel"), I immediately freak out and stop writing anything altogether.  Including blog posts, journal entries and shopping lists.  May be better in the long run to leave the idea of "that bloody novel" alone.  It only wants to kill all of my productivity.  Stupid bloody novel.

14.  You're more likely to find happiness in small, everyday routines than in achieving the Big Thing that you've been telling yourself you need to do in order to be successful for years (bloody chuffing NOVEL!!).  I have a job I can get immersed in, a gym I can't stay away from, great friends and family, and a boyfriend that turns a blind eye when I steal from his weirdly untouched but ever growing stash of chocolates.  What more could I want?  Apart from more chocolates?

15.  No matter how much I try to convince myself that I will one day figure out how to "eat clean" (whatever the hell that entails), I will not be able to shake the fact that "bad food" is and always will be delicious as fuck.  Food is food and as long as I'm making as much effort to eat enough nutritious things to avoid rickets and/or scurvy during the day, I can have a few(hundred) corn flake cakes too.  Shut up!  Stop judging!  STOP LOOKING STOP LOOKING STOP LOOKING!! *stuffs fifth cake down own top in bid to hide it*

16.  These lists will get a little longer every year what with all the aging.  Now learning/realising that this post will get increasingly difficult to think up life lessons for every year I live.  Oh dear.  Must cram for wisdoms over the coming year.  Wisdom submissions throughout the year welcome, readers.  PLEASE GIVE ME WISDOMS TO STEAL! Err.  Borrow.  I'll pay you in corn flake cakes.  If there are any left.
 
17.  Commutes of over 20mins are great.  Audio book autobiographies and podcasts are even better.  I've taken car journeys with David Mitchell and Amy Poehler chatting away at me through my speakers.  Am so glamorous and cool now, driving with the stars. 

18.  Tiny jumpers immobilize cats: 

"The moment I am free from this contraption will be your last, human!"

19.  Along with the rest of the baffled Western world, I have found myself enjoying Justin Beiber songs more often than I like to admit.  I've now learned to accept that while I am not a true Belieber, I no longer deny  the talent of whoever writes his songs for him these days.  Damn it. 

20.  Much as I think I can, I cannot rap.  Or dance.  But at least questionable dancing can be made fun by enthusiasm.  Rapping can't.  Especially with an accent like mine.  I just sound like someone  who is furious that the cups aren't the right pattern at a tea party. 

21.  Weddings are the best kind of party to be a guest at. 

22.  A marathon is entirely possible to do =)

23.  Eurovision night should be made an international holiday, and the day after it should always be a bank holiday to facilitate hangover recovery and furious downloading of so-bad-they're-amazing songs (Except for German former winner Lena's Satellite, which is just pure brilliance... I almost typed "former German winner" there, but as far as I am aware, she's still very much a German).   

24.  I no longer want to be Beyonce.  I now want to be Amy Poehler and any one of the beast-women I saw on telly in the CrossFit games last year.  Amy Bro-ler...?  Whatever.  I want to be invincible, attractive in tiny shorts, clever and paid to make people laugh with my words. 

25.  Moving to a house that has curtains will not convince your mother that you are an adult who is capable of decorating their home.  Mostly because you aren't an adult who is capable of decorating your home. No, the smelly candle doesn't count as a decoration either.

26.  Finding notes you've written to yourself in your phone months after you've written them is hilarious when they're totally without context:

27.  It's  surprisingly easy to stop giving a shit about how you look. I've mostly stopped untagging unflattering pictures of myself on Facebook and find it much more fun just to point and laugh at my own malleable mess of a face.  Check out this beaut:

I'm sure sure someone out there "would"...maybe someone from the cast of Wallace & Gromit?

Also I would like to point out that this was taken at Christmas.  I don't have a special paper dinner hat that I wear at mealtimes.

 Well, I'd better start thinking about things I need to learn for next year's "28 wisdoms"....Not sure there's enough room for that many wisdoms in my brain.  Might have to delete that last season of Dexter to make space.  It was terrible anyway. Or is that only how my Virgin Media box works?

G'bye!

Reasons To Eat the Thing

So.  It's mid January.  Corporate turkey and Jesus fest is over (I love corporate turkey and Jesus fest.  Praise be Turkey).  Resolutions have been made by many and broken by most.  My genius plan was to write something every day, be it a diary entry, blog post or a bit of fiction. 

How's it going, you ask?  My last post was before Christmas.  As I may have already mentioned, it's mid January.  You tell me how it's going.

Seriously, tell me.  It's going good, right? 

The only habit that I have successfully  managed to strengthen since the house became a barren, tinsel free zone was that of eating sweet treats until I feel sick on at least a bi hourly basis.  Major first world problem, I'm fully aware, but hunger has become an foreign concept to me.  I've forgotten what it's like.  I only assume it's that feeling of being "not nauseous to my very bones."

I blame the boom in the market for "salted and sweet" products.  Popcorn is the worst siren call.  Sweet and salted popcorn is like crack to me.  I think.  I mean, I've never tried crack, but the only things that I can think of that I've been hopelessly addicted to are all food items.   It'd sound weird if I said popcorn is like cheese on toast.  Makes no sense.

Back at work, I have found daily excuses to leave the office and retrieve a my beloved bag of salted, candied crack.  I often buy two bags, thinking that having a spare for the following day will dissuade me from another trip to the supermarket solely to buy a single variety of crunchy snack.  Never works.  I just end up sheepishly (no idea why.  Who's going to catch me?  The food police?  Dear God don't tell me there are really food police) eating both bags in the car on my way from the shop and back to work.  

"Oh, you've been for a walk?"

"Yup, nice to stretch my legs. Get a bit of the old exercise."

"What's that flaky stuff on your face?"

"NOTHING. SHUT UP, AM A HEALTHY, HEALTHY LADY WHO JUST LOVES A LOVELY WALK! NOTHING TO SEE HERE."

I know in the small, shy, logical bit of my brain that rarely comes out of its hole (assume is busy reading and contemplating the universe or something) that eating 2 bags a day of nutritionally void salt and sugar lumps, plus whatever is shaped like a biscuit and not nailed down isn't going to do my mood, well being and health any good in the long run.  However, the other 99.9% of my brain has become something of an expert over the years at fighting off sensible logic-brain at moments of greed.  I have a lot of these moments.  So if you're anything like me and always need an excuse handy for when you might need to consume an entire box of toffees in one sitting (ow, my body hurts.  I feel a new chin coming on), here are some you may use at your leisure:

• I'm tired.
• I'm sad.
• I'm hormonal.
• I'm happy.
• I'm awake.
• I've eaten something healthy and totally deserve a reward for being so saintly.
• I can't look like I'm on a diet or something.  Diets are ridiculous and never work.  It makes much more sense to eat until I hate myself a little bit.  Much, much healthier.
• That particular thing is my absolute favourite thing to eat ever and so I am powerless against it.
• This thing is also may favourite.
• This too.
• I'm bulking.  Bulging? Whatever.  Same difference.
• It's okay if I eat this chewy thing because it's so chewy.  It takes more calories to chew the chewy thing than it does to digest it.
• I regularly exercise.  That means I'm immune to fatty, sugary food, right?  I need the energy.  I'm not putting on fat.  It's muscle.  Lovely, wobbly muscle.
• I need to have a period of eating as though all confectionery is going to be made illegal at any moment before I can turn it all around and emerge, butterfly-like from my poor, abused body.  Eventually.  That's how it works, yes? 
• I've already eaten one crap thing today, so that's today out of the window.  Might as well carry on and start again tomorrow!  Nothing from now until midnight counts as a poor choice.  Hurrah!
• I'm on a Haribo induced shame spiral and so now I need this vat of salty pretzels to counteract the guilt because it's not sweet and so will cancel the sugary snack out.
• It's Friday.
• It's Monday.
• It's a day with the letter A in it.

O-kay, better stop there.  Little bit frightened by the fact that I could carry on for pages and pages.

Before I go, and because "my efforts" to keep this blerg up to date have been pants at best, here are some things:

1. Despite my plan (As you have already seen, I am very good at sticking to plans) to stay away from longer distance races for a good, long while until my ankle gets all-the-way better, I might be signing up to the Llanelli Half Marathon.  I enjoyed the last one, despite the frigid (heh. Frigid) conditions and grim numbness from said frigid (heh heh) conditions.  It's in March and because of my new commute for work, I am unlikely to find the time to put much training in outside of Crossfit and the odd 5k.  Should be an interesting event to say the least. The only thing for certain is that I will cross the finish line if I have to crawl on my elbows, because we had cool beanie hats at the end of the last one, and I really want a new hat.  Hopefully blue this time.  Or purple.  Not fussy.
2. Dog is still alive.  Excellent.
3. Cat is still a resident of our humble abode and has entered into a reluctant friendship with Dog.  Albeit a one sided friendship where Dog repeatedly sniffs Cat's anus until Hell breaks loose.  Aww.  So cute.
4. I recently saw all bar the newest Star Wars movies.  I couldn't be any later to the party, and I want to blog about my reactions to them, but I need to see the newest one first in order to put my inane thoughts down in writing.  Soon.

....Sooooon.

Right, I'm off to have an argument with myself about the merit of getting out of my pyjamas and heading down the street to where my car is parked to retrieve the bag of popcorn I've just remembered I've not inhaled yet.  By out of my pyjamas, I mean "and into clothes".  Don't want to become infamous for being the local naked snacker.

Bye!

Wine O' Clock/ My New, Smelly Housemate

Hiyaaaa!  Have drunk (drunken? Drank? Drenked?  Necked, mate!! ..?) most of a bottle of wine whilst binge watching Channel 4's Secret life of 4, 5 and 6 year olds because...Christmas? Also watching 4, 5 and 6 year olds is fucking funny.  They talk exactly like pissed adults do.  I feel I'm in good company.  I too have attacks of moderate to severe social anxiety whilst in a onesie, cute bespectacled kid.  I feel your pain.  Also, your sheep onesie is way cooler than my penguin one.  Swap?

I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to write about or how my spelling's going to pan out or even if I'm going to publish whatever this is.  Proper edge of your chair, seat of your pants stuff, no?  Normally at this level of "slightly warm and fuzzy" with a hint of "I-want-pizza-NOW-GET-ME-PIZZA-can-we-dance-a-bit-first-though-I-love-you-mate-WHERE-IS-MY-EFFING-PIZZA?!!" tipsy, I start talking at A as an outlet for all my thoughts and feelings.  I have lots of both.  More of one than the other.  I'll let you be the judge.  However...

 

*shrug*

Cat's gone out, so a heart to heart punctuated with long, intense stares of mild disdain is out of the question.  And this one is currently hanging upside down on the sofa in in a creepy, open eyed coma:

  Before the coma.  Would take a picture now of aforementioned coma, but I can see more balls than face (his. Not mine.  Not that I have balls.  I'm unsure why I feel that it's important to underline this fact.  Becky Taunton:  Testicle free since 1988...please put that on my gravestone) in the position he's in.  The internet doesn't need to see this.  Take my word for it, internet.  Am doing you a favour.

What's that, you ask? Who is that hypnotic, severely cute creature (look at the picture again if the mention of balls made you do a little sick in your mouth)?  Just my new dog.

I GOT A DOG!!!! ANDY FINALLY LET ME GET A DOG AND HE'S PERFECT APART FROM THE FACT THAT THE CAT HATES HIM AND HE RAINBOW YAWNS ALL OVER THE CAR ON EVERY TRIP!

.....DOG!!!!! =D

We renamed the little cutie/smelly oaf Jesse in line with the Breaking Bad theme we have on the go with the feline.  We named the cat Walter.  Walter White.  If you have no idea what I'm on about and have never seen Breaking Bad, I'll wait until you have.

 ... Good, isn't it?  Makes meth look like so much more than a drug that makes you repeatedly hoover up all the teeth that keep on dropping out of your head, doesn't it?  I have no idea what the purpose was of that episode with the fly in it either, but I remember it the most clearly for some reason.  Maybe it had a secret meaning that resonated with me?  We are all trying to kill our own flies in the inner lab of the...mind?  Or maybe it was the simplest story arc and all the my brain is capable of actually taking in.

Did they even kill the fly in the end? I think they did.

So.  Yes.  Jesse.  We have had him for a grand total of two days now, which obviously makes us responsible, seasoned canine guardians now.  Obvs.  Here is a list of what I've found to be different in my life since he barfed, snuffled, jumped and napped his way into our lives on Thursday:

1.  It is awesome seeing someone lose their actual mind when you walk in the front door.  I initially felt a little irked that I didn't get this treatment pre-dog, but on reflection, it would have been be weird if upon my arrival home each night, A leaped twice his height in the air and headbutted my legs until I told him enough times that he's a good boy for him to be calm.  Just.. wrong.  

2.  I finally live with a creature who can eat faster than I can.  I'm impressed and have a quiet respect for this.

3.  Been going a bit insane at the fact that even though I like my new job, it involves a heckuvva lot of sitting down.  The days fly by, but I do go home twitching on excess energy.  Dog is answer.  Dog is solution. Dog is the key.  Dog is the secret.  Jesse has taken me on several walkies already.  I look forward to many, many more in the future.  The sooner he learns to throw a frizbee for me, the better.  That's how fetch works, right?  God, I love walkies.

4.  Dog.

5. Dog dog dog dog I HAVE A DOG!!!

Got to go now.  Wine glass is empty and I need another walk.
 
Good talk, guys.  How was my spelling?