Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Nothing Short Of Sheer Slapstick.

Okay. So there are, after all, a few downsides to exercising. In spite of the fact that The BF, my people, and I have been 'running', I am still nowhere near feeling remotely close to anywhere in the vicinity of fit. After two sessions at the gym, I'm feeling so incredibly buggered that I'm considering multi-organ transplant. Beginning with the lungs.

But it's not just the body that's a problem. (Even though I have possibly, due to sheer expulsion from sweat glands, lost at least 50% of total body mass.). It's the excessive fatigue.

You see, post-gym, I was scarcely able to make it through Grey's Anatomy on Monday night - and I live for that programme; so much so that I switch my phone off and avoid any conversation for three hours prior in the anticipation that people may ask me to do stuff with them.

So Tuesday morning was, in The Pant's house, nothing short of sheer slapstick.

5.00 am - The alarm sounds. Look at alarm and figure can lie in for further 15 minutes.

5.02 am - Look at phone. "Realise" that I'm not going to fall asleep again but treat myself to a few more minutes of sheer comfort.

± 5.47 am - Embraced in passionate kiss with Jake Gyllenhall.

± 5.59 am - Cannot find The Incubator in a busy shopping mall and panic.

6.10 am - Sun scorches through window, into eyeball, like a searing arrow. Check time. Scream: fuuuuuuuuuuu*k.

Hear The BF, my people, upstairs shriek: fuuuuuuuuuu*k.

The Daughter: What's wrong, Mommy?

The Pant: So much. Late.

6.11 am - Start shower. Strip naked with the sexiness of Roseanne Barr. Realise should make The Daughter's breakfast prior to shower so she can eat while cleansing occurs. Run through to kitchen. See 5 males returning from gym standing outside window. Too focussed on task at hand to be embarrassed at stark nakedness. Throw cereal and milk in bowl. Sprint to bedroom. Hand over to The Daughter, order, "Eat!" using a tone I know she will be too afraid to defy.

6.14 am - Dive head first into still-running shower. Have forgotten to turn cold on. Suffer third degree burns. Attempt to scratch own skin off with fingernails. Switch cold on. Wait for it to take effect, hopping from leg to leg. Bellow, "Are you eating?"

6.15 am - Get back in shower. More humanely. Scrub with ferocity. Remember naked encounter with neighbours. Blush.

6.21 am - Exit shower. Forgot towel. Sprint (over carpets - my worst thing) to linen cupboard. Grab towel. Realise have nothing to wear.

6.23 am - Exit house. Stand on balcony, wrapped in towel, hair dripping. Yell, "Pal, I've got nothing to wear!!"

6.24 am - She exits, in self same state of undressedness. "Me neither." We swap clothes through civilised exchange of throwing clothes up and down balcony.

6.34 am - Both The Daughter and self are dressed (thank God my initial morning tone was so stern that she did not engage in fight over "coolness" of selected outfit).

6.35 am - Realise have not made The Daughter's lunch. Cut watermelon with left hand. Rummage in cupboards for spreads with right hand. Butter bread using mouth.

6.37 am - Brush The Daughter's teeth with such ferocity think may have filed them down a centimetre or two. Brush own teeth.

6.39 am - Pour base directly on to face. Use brush to blend, ever so slightly. Smudge mascara. Do not care. Figure nude lips are far more fashionable than lip-sticked ones. Run brush through hair.

6.41 am - Exit house. Lock door. Remember have forgotten deodorant, perfume and earrings. Unlock door. Run to bathroom. Spray perfume under arms and deodorant onto wrists and neck. Think, "Fu*k it.". Slip earrings in. Dash for door. Remember to lock (am, if I don't say so myself, brilliant).

6.45 am - The Daughter, in car seat. Wanda, in reverse. The Pant, grinning from ear to ear at achievement. Think to self, "Who's. Your. Effing. Momma?"

6.51 am - Still super chuffed at own achievement. Think, "What is the point in waking up so early?" Catch sight of self in rear-view mirror. Gasp at ill-applied make-up. Promise self that will get up when alarm sounds in future.

In other VERY important news: Happy Birthday to The BF, my people. You're the raddest pal any girl could ever wish for. Heart you muchly xxx.

3 comments:

  1. Future Ex HusbandMarch 9, 2011 at 2:14 PM

    This made me laugh so much. You always make me feel better pant

    ReplyDelete
  2. future ex husband - i agree - you're right - the pant always makes fun out of ordinary everyday things

    ReplyDelete
  3. GR8 blog - Up ....... - White Bear

    ReplyDelete