Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I Wanna Die With You, Wendy, On The Streets Tonight

I went for a jog last night. Go me! Well, go me, and go Andrew with me because I dragged him along too. "Mr. Motivator" I'm going to call him, though my true motivation is to be fit and sexy and able to buy clothes in stylish high street shops that are not sized "OMFG HAHA FAT!".

Andrew didn't want to come. It was blustery, cold and wet outside and there was rugby on telly and I can't run and he knew I'd whinge and we'd just come home from a four-course dinner in my nana's where he'd been introduced to roast lap of lamb and we'd all eaten too much cabbage. So you couldn't really blame him. But I made big eyes at him and he reluctantly dragged on his hockey shorts and a pair of runners. "We'll walk to Harold's Cross bridge" I said "and then run to the bridge in Portobello, and then walk home!". I was reasonably confident I'd manage that much, having done it before and not died. He didn't say anything. The doubt started to seep in as we mounted the steps from the basement flat into the piss and bluster of the evening. "Tired now!" I giggled and then, to my utter horror (and comic surprise) he broke into a run. I had no choice but to follow him, scampering down the road like a fat Labrador chasing a biscuit.

I made it as far as the bridge before slowing to a walk, and then gasped my way across it while he waited up for me, careful to stay out of arm's reach lest I climb aboard his broad back and demand a piggy-ride home. We rounded the corner and he took off again, with me huffing and puffing in his wake, wondering if I might perhaps have undiagnosed asthma. Halfway there, I slowed my trot to a tottle. "Did I say you could stop?" he shouted over his shoulder. I didn't say anything, because I couldn't breathe, but I was shocked enough by my mild-mannered husband heckling me like a hardass to start running again. I made it as far as the lock and stumbled across the wooden gates, giving him a cheeky wave as he ran the extra minute or two over La Touche bridge. He caught up with me by the Lower Deck and told me to run the rest of the way home, that I'd feel better for it. "Two deep breaths, Pussycat, and then go" he said. I obeyed, too oxygen-deprived to be anything but obedient, and gulped down a ganky mouthful of secondhand cigarette smoke as we walked past the pub door. And then I fucking ran.

My calves ached when we got in. I stripped off and wrapped myself in a towel, my skin rising in red welts, reacting to heat, sweat, cold. "I'm allergic to yogging!" I whined, flashing my mottled diddies at Andrew. "Just a healthy glow, Pussycat" he reassured me "you're still beautiful". I lumped off to the shower, reassured that I was now svelte and lovely (if a little rashy for the effort) and scalded my sore muscles. I am strong like an Amazon, I thought to myself as I dried in front of the mirror, and hairy like an ape. I should epilate. Mindful of the other patrons of the Rathmines swimming pool, I decided to start with my bikini line.

"Kitty!" I roared "I've found something more painful than yogging!"


Conan Drumm said...

Haha, that's what you get for marrying a sometime hockey coach. Did the vows include love, honour, and training, for as long as ye both shall remain ambulant?

Catherine said...

Am now picturing Andrew in lycra and roundy glasses and a bum bag...

Au Lapin Blanc said...

Ahaha splendid post m'dear. I laughed out loud at 'fat labrador chasing a biscuit' which caused many strange looks about the office.

"Heh...hehe...fat labrador...ha...heh...biscuit" I said into me tea.

the dublinista said...

Try spinning for respiratory check.

At least you made it to the water...I would have stopped off at Aprile for a quarter pounder with cheese and a single.

Kitty Cat said...

Epilating your bikini line? Aghhh! I think my crotch flinched when I read the end of that post. You're a braver woman than me, that's for damn sure.

Annie said...

labrador / biscuit = hee

Can't believe you actually went jogging. That is insane.

KFS said...

Yeah , the Labrador biscuit, a classic.

Rosie said...

i'm keener on it than he is, Conan. just far less able.

you're very welcome, Catherine!

Rabbit, Annie, KFS, i have Fat Rosie upstairs as my inspiration. she's the greediest chocolate lab that ever did live.

Dublinista, stop singing Gimme's song. cycling's bad enough, but cycling on the spot while someone (Gimme) shouts at you? i'd sooner, well, jog.

Kitty Cat, see most recent post and substitute "brave" with "stupid and vain".