Arose at the crack of half-an-hour before I really wanted to be awake, had tea, had toast, had to drive with 'Salina across town to a park with a whole bunch of other women, ranging from super-fit, boppy young women through to still-a-whole-heap-fitter-than-me brigade of fillies.
Yup. I had me a senior's moment at some point in my recent past, and signed me (and my ever-loving teenage girl) up to a month's worth of physical effort towards a goal. I had not previously known that the slide into the third-base that is 45 can have the side-effect of maniacal behaviour.
Still, it hasn't been all bad. It rained one evening.
Nah. It actually isn't so dire. I had set my goal as "tone" - no qualifier on there as to a level requirement. And if there is anything to be said for "pushing your body past the point where it begs for mercy" (with a side order of "I wish I'd looked after my " bleats), it is the excruciation of such an experience does apparently lead to a lowering of the layer of gelatinous comfort between me and the outside world. Indeedy yes, my thighs are definitely percentage points closer to that of a seasoned cyclist (a very low percentage, it is true, when you have such a lofty benchmark). The outside-side of my thighs, to be precise.
Not good for lowering one-self into the chair 12 hours after a little session (a make-up session for the rained-out respite) affectionately classed as "bootcamp".
You know television's "The Biggest Loser" - well, I was the pathetic one right at the back of the pack doing the Cliffy-shuffle alternated with pathetic attempts at manouvre's with catchy names and torturous technique - or in my case, yogic sinkings into the park-scape with tiny little pinecones digging me in the soft bits.
Then I showered, gathered breads and herbs and neighbour, exchanged the teenager for the four year old and headed off to the food swap, the library, home, family mediation, nap (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha), cycle, park, collect teenager, healthy meal, nip to shops with Paris to get tomatoes for salad, meal preparation seriously kyboshed by oven death, nip to fisho with Paris to collect chips slathered in salt...
But otherwise I am fine. How are you?
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Saturday, March 01, 2014
1) Getting them started requires a lot of grunting and muttering.
2) Once started, they splutter, choke and roar demanding attention.
3) They always require more fuel than you imagine.
4) They are extremely effective in blasting away ephemeral detritus, overblown superfluities and glass panels in back doors.
5) Just when you think they are doing a good job, they take offence at whim and chuck a hissy fit, requiring more rope, more food, more absurd behaviour until they suddenly gallop away again in the right-ish direction.
6) They think that one hour is enough work for a weekend.
7) They stink, even when they have washed.
8) The whole “sum of the noise of two whipper snippers” whole being greater than the parts debate. That.
9) They require you to block your head from their emissions – aural and nasal - for fear of permanent injury to your neurons.
10) It is rumoured that there are whipper snippers out there who disprove the whole generalisation of an appliance theory. In fact, a friend of a friend of a friend heard of one that was compliant, beautiful to behold, would weekend warrior and weed whack whole gardens, combined grace with old fashioned charm and whose modulated tones were elixir to the ear, odour most joyous to the nose. Perhaps it is true.