After a particularly lazy week last week, and a Thursday at Step when I found the class so hard that I had to remove all the risers and do the class almost on the flat (Clive's Camp Quote of the Week: "TWO! TWO! OH MY GOD.....next week I'm going to bring in a counting chart from 1 to 10 and we're going to LEARN TO COUNT..."), I have been to a class every night this week *is smug*. I went to two in a row on Monday, and spinning on Tuesday, blergh blergh.
Going so often allows for a lot of daydreaming and making up interesting stories about our fellow exercisers. Annoying Tigger Woman is my favourite. Why is she so bouncy? It is not good for her, she's so busy trying to kick highest or pivot furthest that she totally loses form. Ali and I think it is because of the guy she comes with. Perhaps he is her husband, and she is trying to show off because he had an affair and she is trying to save their relationship. Hence the insanely fast cycling at spinning - with no resistance.
Clive's Camp Quote of tonight: "You're all CRIPPLES!" and "It's not bad. It's not good, but it's ot bad." The other women in the class were all complaining about him tonight, and saying he's boring and they autopilot through the whole thing, and that he's really rude. He's not rude, he's funny! And if he's that boring, how come they're always getting it wrong? We went to a Sunday morning step class with Linda a couple of weeks back - now THAT was dull as shit, and she's not motivational and in fact a bit sneery. I appreciate an instructor that calls me a cripple. It makes me work harder and also makes me laugh; although, I suppose it's a bit un-PC.
All this exercising, but I feel more of a blob than ever. Too many sweets, too much bread. More fruit needed. My 5-and-20 thread on the forum got deleted and I haven't been too good about focusing on my goals since I can't post every day. Excuses, excuses!
In a mere 36 hours, I can make Mr Z cut the front jungle.
Thursday, 24 May 2007
Sunday, 20 May 2007
I am a cliche
This afternoon, while Mr Z slumbered deeply during his nap, I decided I was sick of looking at the long grass in the back and front garden, and that maybe if I mowed the back garden, he might do the front. This was also a ruse to get out of going to the gym this evening, as I thought that some pushing-up-and-down of a mower would count as exercise.
It was all going swimmingly, until I decided to do the edges. And now the lawn mower doesn't work, and one of the pieces of wood on the border is badly splintered. I fear I have become the cliche of woman-with-machinery. And now, we are have this situation.
And in the front garden? Wild fucking kingdom.
Not only can we not finish trimming the back garden, thanks to a dearth of cord for the strimmer, but the only way the front garden will get cut before next weekend is if I take my nail scissors to it.
Here are a couple more gratuitous garden shots - there's some lovely colour in the front garden, and the sneaky Christmas tree is growing again - we put it outside in its pot in January 2003, intending to burn it, and it has rooted through the pot, but it keeps pretending to die and then coming back to life.
...and one further gratuitous shot, of Mr Z peering out of the window, trying to work out why I was taking pictures of my butcher job on the lawn.
It has been a week of weeks. Due to the early commencement of the GCSE exams this year, the year 11 leavers' ball took place on Tuesday. It was the usual mixture of drinking, being ignored by the kids and dancing to the Cha Cha slide. This year, Paul, the very definitely inclined dance teacher, got tongues wagging by dancing extremely suggestively with Katie, whilst his staff "girlfriend" Cara looked on, green-eyed (oh how we love spinning these yarns for the kids); Rob and I tried to re-enact our Christmas Strinctly Come Dancing success to McFly's "Stargirl", succeeding only in knocking Heidi's drink from her hand; and I managed to get all three men in my department into a picture together. Sadly, the cover supervisor also decided to join us, since she spends such a lot of time in the History department, but oh well.
The highlight of the evening, however, has to be when Carol, the head of repro, decided to have a good old boogie in her gorgeous green satin boob tube, and forgot that she had to keep her chest lifted and shoulder blades back. The unfortunate year 11 who was having his picture taken at the time got an eyeful and is possibly scarred for life. At least it was just the one that popped out. This is why strapless bras are an absolute must under boob tubes.
Anyway, the year 11 ball was tres fun, but it was a TUESDAY for crying out loud, and I didn't manage to catch up on my sleep all week. It was so bad, I spent all day Saturday with chronic indigestion, napping on the sofa. The whole 5-fruit-and-veg-and-20-minutes-of-exercise plan has totally gone out of the window, and I am not feeling great. Back to it this week.
An aside: I am annoyed that the option to change my text into Times New Roman has gone *pout*
It was all going swimmingly, until I decided to do the edges. And now the lawn mower doesn't work, and one of the pieces of wood on the border is badly splintered. I fear I have become the cliche of woman-with-machinery. And now, we are have this situation.
And in the front garden? Wild fucking kingdom.
Not only can we not finish trimming the back garden, thanks to a dearth of cord for the strimmer, but the only way the front garden will get cut before next weekend is if I take my nail scissors to it.
Here are a couple more gratuitous garden shots - there's some lovely colour in the front garden, and the sneaky Christmas tree is growing again - we put it outside in its pot in January 2003, intending to burn it, and it has rooted through the pot, but it keeps pretending to die and then coming back to life.
...and one further gratuitous shot, of Mr Z peering out of the window, trying to work out why I was taking pictures of my butcher job on the lawn.
It has been a week of weeks. Due to the early commencement of the GCSE exams this year, the year 11 leavers' ball took place on Tuesday. It was the usual mixture of drinking, being ignored by the kids and dancing to the Cha Cha slide. This year, Paul, the very definitely inclined dance teacher, got tongues wagging by dancing extremely suggestively with Katie, whilst his staff "girlfriend" Cara looked on, green-eyed (oh how we love spinning these yarns for the kids); Rob and I tried to re-enact our Christmas Strinctly Come Dancing success to McFly's "Stargirl", succeeding only in knocking Heidi's drink from her hand; and I managed to get all three men in my department into a picture together. Sadly, the cover supervisor also decided to join us, since she spends such a lot of time in the History department, but oh well.
The highlight of the evening, however, has to be when Carol, the head of repro, decided to have a good old boogie in her gorgeous green satin boob tube, and forgot that she had to keep her chest lifted and shoulder blades back. The unfortunate year 11 who was having his picture taken at the time got an eyeful and is possibly scarred for life. At least it was just the one that popped out. This is why strapless bras are an absolute must under boob tubes.
Anyway, the year 11 ball was tres fun, but it was a TUESDAY for crying out loud, and I didn't manage to catch up on my sleep all week. It was so bad, I spent all day Saturday with chronic indigestion, napping on the sofa. The whole 5-fruit-and-veg-and-20-minutes-of-exercise plan has totally gone out of the window, and I am not feeling great. Back to it this week.
An aside: I am annoyed that the option to change my text into Times New Roman has gone *pout*
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
The end is nigh
I parted my hair on the other side today.
During my daily morning break preening in the staffroom toilet mirror, I found a white hair.
Granted, it was only a couple of inches long. Granted, the end that was not attached to my scalp was tapered and not coarse, as though it had once been a hair of normal hue, but the shock of something had stripped it of its shade. Granted, it was buried beneath a lot of other normal-coloured hairs, and could have been mistaken for a particularly bright blonde one (there are a lot of blonde hairs on that side of my scalp, unusually). But, it's still not a good sign. In fact, I take it as an indication that I am not the bearer of Mother Hand's lucky, hardly-any-grey-before-50 genes, or Maternal Gran's luckier, still-got-some-colour-at-83-thank-you-very-much. Instead, I appear to be laden with Father Hand's....let's just say, not-so-lucky genes. I suppose it was always on the cards.
I pulled out the offending hair and put it in my handbag. I shall take it home and tape it into my journal, as a reminder that vanity can only be the indulgence of the young.
During my daily morning break preening in the staffroom toilet mirror, I found a white hair.
Granted, it was only a couple of inches long. Granted, the end that was not attached to my scalp was tapered and not coarse, as though it had once been a hair of normal hue, but the shock of something had stripped it of its shade. Granted, it was buried beneath a lot of other normal-coloured hairs, and could have been mistaken for a particularly bright blonde one (there are a lot of blonde hairs on that side of my scalp, unusually). But, it's still not a good sign. In fact, I take it as an indication that I am not the bearer of Mother Hand's lucky, hardly-any-grey-before-50 genes, or Maternal Gran's luckier, still-got-some-colour-at-83-thank-you-very-much. Instead, I appear to be laden with Father Hand's....let's just say, not-so-lucky genes. I suppose it was always on the cards.
I pulled out the offending hair and put it in my handbag. I shall take it home and tape it into my journal, as a reminder that vanity can only be the indulgence of the young.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
Rainy May Day
What a surprise! It is raining. I spent the weekend in Hastings with Sam, and it was so overcast and windy that I couldn't even go in the sea :-( I wanted to go cycling tomorrow, since Amaryah (colleague at school) leant me her bike, and I want to see how long it takes to cycle to Keynsham, the local train station. They have started to do an hourly service to school now, and if it's cyclable it might be a good alternative for when the clutch goes on my car (I fear this is imminent). Of course, the return train journey costs £4 a day more than the petrol, but still.
Maybe it will be nice enough for the bike ride. Otherwise I'll be sat inside all day, ignoring my piles of work, and Ester, which is now over 200 stitches wide and takes me half an hour per row and therefore I have now lost interest. I have such a poor attention span. I even just zoned out on this entry for a few minutes.
I have spent 2 days filling my body with junk food and alcohol and smoking more cigarettes than I have in the past 2 months (I managed to quit for nearly a whole month...). Consequently I feel pretty rough right now. I might go to bed and read a fitness magazine as penance.
Maybe it will be nice enough for the bike ride. Otherwise I'll be sat inside all day, ignoring my piles of work, and Ester, which is now over 200 stitches wide and takes me half an hour per row and therefore I have now lost interest. I have such a poor attention span. I even just zoned out on this entry for a few minutes.
I have spent 2 days filling my body with junk food and alcohol and smoking more cigarettes than I have in the past 2 months (I managed to quit for nearly a whole month...). Consequently I feel pretty rough right now. I might go to bed and read a fitness magazine as penance.
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