Friday, February 11, 2011

Divorce 101: Getting Thin

I think I need to divorce my husband (The Brother - weird Liner family thing).  The other night, we were having our nightcap on the verandah, breathing in the sweet fumes of Durban, when we got into the fitness discussion.

The Husband:  I haven't been going to gym this week.  Think I've put on weight.

The Pant:  (because I'm always nice)  No, you haven't.  Me, on the other hand.  Sheesh kebab.  I've put on more weight than would be needed to end famine in Africa.

TH:  Yes.  You have.  But it looks good (shocking afterthought-get-yourself-out-of-deep-trouble comment)

And so the next morning, I had The BF up, and the two of us set out for a run (by 'run' read 'run only when passing very hot other runner men but not so much that you actually break out into a sweat').  And so we ambled along, admiring nice houses and discussing the changes we would make to other houses to make them, well, decent.  One of those suggestions was: bulldoze the whole effing thing down and build from scratch.  But use a different builder.

Ah.  The rush of endorphins really makes The Pant a clever, clever girl.  (Hey!  I might have forgotten to mention that our 'run' start time is 5 am - a girl is allowed to not be at her most intelligent.)

And so, there we were, 'running' side-by-side, taking apart other people's taste when we passed a house from which a very loud whiiirrrrrring sound was emitted.

TP:  Oh.  My.  God.  Whoever that chick is, she must have a shit load of hair! Talk about industrial strength hair dryer. Crikey. We can hear it from here.

BF:  Either that, or she's got a functional pool pump.

TP:  Yup.  Pool pump.  That makes better sense.

As I said - not the brightest bulb in the box.

But I'm glad we're 'running'.  It means we're part of some kind of clan of beautifully-bodied people.  They greet  us in the morning.  That hottie-hot-pants in the black polyshorts with no top (I know!  Glor-effing-ious!!) has greeted me with 'howzit' three times this week!  That must be some kind of a record.  I wonder if it's considered poor running-etiquette to stop a runner mid-stride to suggest that you might want to be awfully naughty with him?

So, I suppose, there's no real need to divorce The Husband.  He's got me onto something good.

And I'm so getting thin  And I'm getting Black Polyshorts Man.  There.  He's got himself an alias.

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