The Excercist

I’m not entirely sure what possessed me, presumably some sort of New Years enthusiasm, sleep deprivation or masochistic tendency, but this morning I awoke at 5am decided to go for a run. As usual, before mounting this kind of expedition I sat down for a a sober dose of breakfast and a steaming cup of what-the-hell-are-you-thinking. Unfortunately I still couldn’t shake the enthusiasm or justify not following it through.

Things may have panned out a little better had my energetic urge involved something a little less, well, energetic. Like walking... or strolling... or wandering aimlessly… or sleeping. The fatal flaw in this ‘running’ plan turned out not to be the running but my body’s complete refusal to perform the act without the intense desire to lie down very fast, switch off all non-essential neural function and possibly discard any extraneous stomach contents. This desire was not at all aided by the incessant requirement to respond to the disturbingly cheerful ‘morning’s hurled at me by what I sincerely believe to be victims of some kind of mass alien abduction intent on making people so saccharine and optimistic they are lulled into such a sense of security that they miss what ever blatantly obvious disaster is looming over the species…I’m not paranoid! They are just too happy for people who are outside at 6am walking in circles wearing matching parasilk outfits. They should be as miserable as the depressing future that conjures up in my mind.

I also encountered that certain species that is only found walking the paths of suburbia flagrantly violating the sacred social code we all live by... The half-naked octogenarian. These are presumably the same breed of Senilis Exhibitionist that are to be found loitering in parks wearing stained trench coats and suspicious grins but possibly still with some remnant of dignity… possibly. The essential item for these majestically hirsute creatures is the heart rate monitor. These are worn strapped around the chest and serve two purposes. Firstly, they hold a lot of the extra skin down. Secondly and most importantly, they inform the world at large that yes, they are actually still alive. It’s like a kind of beacon to the likeminded elderly, unattached and oddly energetic crowd and a powerful aphrodisiac to those blue-rinse athletes in pink wrist weights. They need to be stopped. Or clothed.

After exactly three minutes of this experience I was rasping by the side of the path pretending to do calf stretches (thank god for cereal and tampon ads or I wouldn’t even know what they are) and contemplating the exact velocity I would need to propel myself into the lake. Needless to say, whoever tells you that you will feel great! after exercise is a sadistic liar and certainly not your friend. Who would have though that 15m at a slow jog would cause your lungs to completely reject the rest of your body in a bid for freedom and your legs, hopped up on adrenaline, to forget they have bones and make close friends with gravity. The only distraction I could muster was working out exactly how to describe where I was in case I needed to phone for help - because there is no way I am leaving myself at the resuscitative mercy of some silver-haired philanthropist in loose running shorts.

Well, I found my thirty today. I also found my threshold for pain and a newfound disrespect for the elderly, early risers and humanity in general. When 5am comes around tomorrow hopefully I will have found my sanity.

Beauty Regime

Ever seen something that’s made you stop and think about just how ordinary your perception of the world really is. Well, here’s how it happened to me…

In the tradition of my workaholic family, I was on my way to the office on Sunday. I had already anticipated the Sunday driver traffic with its driving gloves, car loads of kids and mid-life crises vessels and had prepared myself for the frustration when I encountered something not entirely expected. I pulled up behind a car at lights; it was a small Holden Nova hatch circa better times. Squinting into the light, I noticed with a chuckle that the driver was sporting what appeared to be a really tragic perm and her silhouette seemed to be spending a lot of time hunched over the passenger’s side fiddling around in her handbag. This, of course, led to the inevitable total disregarding of the light change and the absurd take off which rather than achieving speed really only makes you look like a slightly more incompetent driver. I settled back and exchanged glances with the driver in the other lane who appeared to sympathise or at the very least had pulled off a really convincing accidental eye contact cover up. Now, here’s where the truly terrible driving set in. As soon as she had recovered from the shock the light chance she starts weaving all over the road, and if that’s not enough she’s gradually slowing down and occasionally jerking on the brake like something is actually in front of her, presumably the sun. Now, ordinarily I would tailgate her and pull faces or at the very least over take her and “accidentally” wash her windscreen with my wiper fluid…but today I was feeling kind. I slide over into the other lane and started to overtake her. As I was drawing closer I noticed she was fiddling about with her rear vision mirror. Ah. One of those… I will never understand why women insist on putting their make-up on in the car. There’s nothing like a beauty regime that has an opportunity to take a life.

Having already judged her a complete and utter flake and a danger to humanity, I proceeded with caution. Now here’s where my world gave me a small kick to the head… As I got a little closer I noticed her tragic perm was fairy floss pink. Ok I thought, cool, makes sense that someone who takes the time to maintain pink hair would also be energetic about make-up. We pulled up at lights and I was desperately resisting the urge to give her the evil eye. Then I cracked and looked across. White foundation, bright red lips, rosy cheeks…I was staring eye to eye with… A Clown.

You can come to your own conclusion about how disturbing it is that all that make up was done in transit.

I finally have a home for all the random stories I email people!

(Also I'm too lazy to write a fresh post for the inauguration of my blog lifestyle)

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The Drive to Work takes 40 Minutes – The Scars Stay for Life

Now I’m an animal lover. That’s not to say, however, that animals feel the same way about me. An extensive lineage of family pets has clearly indicated that members of the animal kingdom would rather perish than be subjugated to me. But being an animal lover does give me license to go ‘Awww’ at cute puppies and be affronted by people who tie dogs outside shopping centres and be …ah… perplexed by the odd happenings in the nearby dog park. This morning as I drove past I saw a sweet little old lady walking through the park with her two enormous cattle dogs (obviously she lives in the pastoral side of our sweet suburban neighbourhood). She was carrying one of those ball throwing devices designed to keep you an arms length away from slobber, one wonders why the designers haven’t extended this concept to the pooper-scooper because that is infinitely more disgusting than saliva, but hey… As I drove past I could see her throwing tennis balls to the two dogs. One of them was pelting across the field, jumping, catching…generally making the scene look like something out an osteoporosis supplement ad starring Sigrid Thornton. But wait? Where is the other dog?!? I could see the old lady throwing tennis balls towards a tree… as I drove past there is the dog. Hunched over, licking its bits and being bombarded with tennis balls to the spine. I wonder whether she was seriously trying to get the dog to play with her or if she was just trying to curb its public displays of deviant behaviour.

Now this needs no explanation of why this was -

a) bizarre

b) stupid

c) offensive

I’ll set the scene – Long line of cars waiting to turn at a red arrow, hot day, cranky people late for work. In front of me is a small, girly hatchback covered in stickers that gives the impression that the owner is a very, very bad girl who likes Frangipanis and Tinkerbell…ooh beware! The door opens, a little blonde head pops out and proceeds to file an offending nail on the curb. Oh. My. God. I don’t think I need to say anything else.