I’ve always wanted to be a runner. Just to be able to casually insert into the conversation, “I bumped into Mary-Jo when I was jogging the other day” or “Managed a couple of laps around the “tan” before catching up with Todd for brunch on Saturday” or better still…”Clocked my personal best for the half-marathon!”. The thing is, even though notionally I wanted to run, I just couldn’t fathom how to get all my limbs to move in the one direction in a forward motion and at any level of velocity. Oh, and it really hurt and felt completely un-natural. So you see my dilemna – I wanted to be a runner, but I didn’t really want to run.
What I have subsequently discovered is that running really is a case of mind over matter. I mean everyone can technically run, with the obvious exception of those wheelchair bound, the legless or those really, really fat bastards. I could run too, but only for short bursts. The recent purchase of a treadmill, affectionately known as the “painmill” meant I no longer had any excuses for not exercising and I was determined to learn how to run for more than just the requisite two minutes in a row.
I even sought advice from friends who can legitimately lay claim to calling themselves “bonafide runners”;
LW: Yeah running hurts like hell, but I just count to 69, chuckle to myself and then start counting again from 0 to 69, over and over again.
BC: Running with a mate can help. One time MA and I got stuck behind a couple of honeys, we really could have passed them, but we could pace ourselves against them and enjoy the view at the same time.
CJ: You run wrong – you should really put your heel down first – you’re just too flat-footed.
MV: Don’t move your arms around too much!
Apart from my physical constraints, I have a much more serious problem – I look like a retard when I run. I have sited myself in shop windows as I pound the pavement and it’s just not a pretty site. I really don’t know what to do with my arms and hands and my running attire is certainly not going to make it to the pages of Vogue’s “Sport Luxe” feature – ‘How to sweat in style!”
All this said, today I took the sage advice of another running friend and hauled myself onto the treadmill to truely test how long I could run without stopping. I am proud to announce that after 30 minutes non-stop running I achieved the lengthy distance of 4kms. That’s pretty pathetic pace, but I have never before, and I mean never ran continuously for that length of time. I am now starting to believe I can actually become a runner. I am even considering registering for my first fun-run – 5.5km in the Melbourne Marathon, starting from and finishing at the legendary MCG.
And the best bit of all, potentially thousands of people and my loved ones can witness my cerebal-palsy like running action on the big screen as I finish that lofty distance inside the MCG.
In the tortured words of Sinead O’Connor….. “It’s been seven hours and fifteen days since you took your love away. I go out every day and sleep all day. Since you’ve been gone I can do whatever I want. I can see whoever I choose. I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant. But nothing can take away these blues because nothing compares to you…”
And although it’s now officially 15 hours and 7 minutes, I find myself alone whilst my loved one trips interstate on business. I have spent the day pondering just what I will do with the next five precious days. There are secret things you can only do when you’re alone.
I’m wearing my favourite pink hat and dark-rimmed woody allenesque glasses, just because I can and no one, besides my cat, will laugh at me. I’m considering overplucking my eyebrows. I’m resurrecting my secret collection of foot files and after a steaming hot bath, filing off six layers of skin in an attempt to revive my tortured heel-hugging tootsies. I’m toying with the idea of homewaxing as an economically viable alternative to trusting beauty professionals with my pesky hair-infested private parts. I’m considering getting a jump on summer with a spray-on tan, but the with current weather conditions prone to affect drying times and the instructions on the back of the can, sketchy at best and downright interpretive at worst, I’m letting common sense prevail here.
I’m wandering around the house, talking aloud for no particular reason. After reading that Molly Meldrum found it perfectly normal to spend quality time with his invisble friend, I am considering renewing my relationship with “Stargirl” and “Starboy”, whom admittedly I haven’t heard from since I was four years old. I’m rifling through the CD collection looking for the Cranberries, but secretly hoping to stumble across Bon Jovi (circa 1988). I’m going to borrow my best friend’s copy of Dirty Dancing and sob relentlessly throughout Patrick Swayze singing “She’s Like the Wind”. I do believe I am the only human being, living or dead, that understands the depth of that man’s talents. I’m flipping through my wardrobe and trying on all the red things. I’m being obsessively tidy, in direct contrast to my usual “devil may care where it falls” attitude. I’m listening to “Love Songs & Dedications” and thinking about how much I miss my boy.
I know that with true freedom, comes responsibility. I alone will have to clean the kitty litter, a harrowing chore at the best of times. In my attempts to retrieve the mail, I will wage a daily vendetta against a troublesome letterbox lock and I will try really hard to not burn down the house by forgetting to turn my hair straightener off. Just to be sure, I’m making the cat wear a miniature sandwich board with the words “Please don’t burn the house down”.
This single life may not be all it is cracked up to be.
If true creative expression is my motivating factor for blogging, then I must question whether I should respect my loved one’s privacy or use this forum to discuss issues of significant importance. With that in mind, I am asking whether the general public are really interested in what my husband may or may not be manufacturing from his bellybutton. If I receive any answers in the affirmative from blogland, I will foresake his privacy and share my dilemna.
Today was a great day.
Starting my post with that line may seem like a big call, but this is a story that needs to be told. On reflection, today may not exactly match that hot and humid day in New York when I beat a path to pay homage to the King of Designer Shoes – Manolo Blahnik, only to find every summer strappy sandal in the store priced at 50% off. With pleading eyes to my benefactor (read husband – the only person on earth who really knows how many pairs of shoes I own) and with a stash of 5 pairs of brand new shoes all snapped up at bargain prices already safely tucked into my suitcase, I realised this was my one and only chance to own a real pair of manolos at the bargain basement price of $250 US dollars. To all those who scoff (this will be all heterosexual men), they are called “Espinada” and make me feel like a princess. I damn well should have bought five pairs. There are just some crucial moments in a girl’s life when slipping on a pair of divine shoes is truly the only cure for the mean reds. I also have a pair of sky-high mock croc hot pink stillettos that were secured at a frenzied David Jones stocktake sale – this was another one of those “great day moments”. These Stuart Weitzman (read hot Spanish shoe designer) beauties will forever be affectionately known as my prostitite shoes – guarrenteed to attract attention and solicit offers from strangers to stroke my feet. However this,, along with an aggravated hip injury from dancing non-stop to the “Bus-Stop” at a work function has somewhat tarnished the glow of these shoes.
But today was not about shoes, it was about securing a chilli-red jersey eyelet detail dress from Country Road. Lust had set in for this dress the moment I received in my hot little hands a copy of the Country Road ‘new season’ catalogue. As lunchtime rolled around, I had hatched a plan. I was located mere blocks from a store that was ‘babysitting’ my dress. Whilst my deep green suede slingbacks were murdering my toes, I could not let pain, lack of sustenance, a full bladder, a seriously dodgy bank balance or the hordes of lunching city workers impede my progress. I am relieved to report the red dress has found a loving home with me, and because like Angelina Jolie, I believe in spreading my benovelence to the lost and orphaned, I also formally adopted a cropped cream jacket, three new tops and a black leather belt.
You may still be wondering what this fashion addict’s diet secrets are? With literally minutes to spare of my lunchbreak, I estimate I burned over a 1000 calories powerwalking back to the office and had only enough time to take a few frenzied gulps of diet coke and gnaw on a handful of nourishing breath mints, salvaged from the bottom of my bag. You see, the need to hunt down that gorgeous dress or essential pair of shoes overrides any other primary urges a woman may have.
Remember girls – any hunger can be sated by a shopping spree.
When is it acceptable to steal?
Does the fact that stealing is legislatively and morally recognised as a crime mean that stealing can never be acceptable? Are the lines of right and wrong blurred somewhat if one is desperately in need or the act in itself merely redresses an imbalance between the haves and have-nots?
I have grappled with these very issues over the last few days as I ponder whether I can accept the fact I am a thief. I could try to convince myself it was a slip of the hand. Maybe I was driven to it as a result of my extreme mental and physical state. Severe deprivation can do strange things to the human mind, even convincing one that taking from a fellow human being is warranted.
But in the end, it was my guilt that drove me to recognise that I did indeed steal the caramel slice from my fellow worker’s desk. The very caramel slice that she was pinning her hopes and dreams of Friday afternoon survival to. The guilt, followed by the hollow feeling that the melt in your mouth slice of sugar heaven left in my stomach culminate in this my first public confession.
Caroline – I apologise to you and I implore you to remove all further temptations as I career on with my carb / sugar / taste-free follies.
I think I’m finally typing my first blog – something I’ve been promising myself I would do for weeks, ever since I was inspired by a good friend. ‘Snaps’ for Bruce Clarke, my inspiration and Malcolm G for encouragement and my dearest Cameron who sincerely believes I desperately need an alternative forum of communication other than chewing his ear off into the wee hours of the night.
So I can’t promise this blog will be insightful or especially enlightening, but I do hope that it will be a place I can attempt to organise my scattered thoughts and share the everyday, but extraordinary (according to me) things that happen to me every day. Oh, and find the answers to eternal happiness?
Hello Blogland and welcome to Jonesgirl’s Weblog…