Blood was 4.2 this morning...whatever that means any more.
Went aquacising again with d last night. A generally mixed-gender class of middle-aged-to-older fucks now know I have absolutely no sense of natural rhythm whatsoever, and gaze piteously at d whenever they stop water-punching and star-jumping and jazz-handsing, vaguely envisaging (or so I pananoically imagine) what our love life must be like, and mentally noting that she could do so much better.
It's an odd thing, but my demented sense of syncopation has, so far in all the world, found its best, most acceptable expression through the art of Zumba - to which I'm not going tomorrow, as d has an appointment elsewhere, and I'll be stone dead and fucked before I Zumbalone! Somehow, in the insane, sweaty, shouty Latin fug, my normal 'fat man having a spasm while trying to disengage ferrets from his fingers' dancing style makes a certain kind of moderately uninhibited sense. At all other times and in all other places...no! This is a fat fuck who doesn't dance - not because he doesn't want to, or is particularly self-conscious of looking like a dick...well, actually, let me re-phrase that...absolutely because he's not particularly self-conscious of looking like a dick. The general public feel a concerted need to be protected from my particular styler of fat fuck dancing.
But when there are moves, actual instructions of what goes where and when, I freeze. Most especially if there's more than one instruction at a time. So - standing in Aquacise, being told to put one leg forward and the opposite arm...and then hop and switch, then hop and switch, and so on...fried my brain. When the instructor added disco twists into the thing, I felt myself sinking relentlessly beneath the cool, cool water.
No pool today, because, really rather irritatingly, I lost my goggles on the way out of the pool. Think I left them in a locker, and when I went back to look for them, some other git had used the locker, locked it and gone in. Humph. d patiently reminds me that we have more than one set of goggles, but that's not really the point. They were my favourite goggles...(reverts to a pouting six-year-old, at least for the length of one day).
Did uber-cycle today though, to make up for not going anywhere near the pool. Then d came home and we went out to a local cafe for a spot of lunch. Nothing fancy - toasties and a bowl of sautee potatoes. Now, weirdly, these have never particularly registered with me as 'fried food', and so haven't been the subject of my perspex walls of dietary banishment. Then, today, d asked the waitress for some more information on them (no, really - more information on sauteed potatoes - did I mention my girl's a Foodie?!), and the waitress said "Oh, well...erm...they're just flat chips really..." (Rolls eyes - can't get proper culinary pretension in this town for love nor money...). Thing is, I still shared them. Felt guilty most of the afternoon of course, and am now awaiting the rumbling retribution of a trip to Xenical Hell, but I'm sort of working on the principle (really? A principle? You're not just making this shit up as you go along and justifying your own actions? Hmm...) that freaking out about every little thing puts the body in stress and doesn't let it lose anything anyway. Am going back on the bike a bit later, if I get a chance and can maintain the desire, but either way, the uberbiking session this morning should pretty much have made lunch calorifically null and void...I'm thinking...so...in a word...nehh!
Back to the novel tonight - Work-Life Balance and all that, ya know?
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