I am, by nature, one of those people who has a fantastic inner monologue. I rarely blog about what I’m thinking, because I talk it out with myself. As crazy as this sounds, we all do it. Sure, I can talk the paint off a wall (don’t get me started on Icelandic indie bands, Doctor Who or cupcakes), but sometimes it is nice to put virtual pen to paper and write this shit down.
I am newly turned 25, writing this from my desk, at work, on my oversized iMac that, quite frankly, dwarfs me (and I love it) while listening to Blur. Where is this going, you ask? I don’t know. I’m like Vanilla Ice (post VH1 reality shows and the drugs), free-styling, badly, so I’m going to do what comes easiest - talk about the crap that annoys me.
Let’s just take today, for example. I am currently on a life-kick; it’s like a health kick, but longer, with short interludes of gin and fried goods, which you must immediately exercise off. Anyway. I’m in the gym this morning for a 6:30am personal training session. (Firstly, yes - personal trainer, because I am too easily distracted to do this alone, and secondly, that ungodly time was forced upon me, totally forced). I wake up at 6am, looking like a cross between Edward Scissorhands and Nadine Dorries after a knees up with the Camerons. It is not a pretty sight. I immediately attempt to tame said mangle of hair and throw on gym clothes. You know - unattractive gym clothes. Made for sweating in, and generally looking a bit of a state.
I arrive at the gym. The first thing I see is a 20-something young lady in a full length (what can only be) Spandex jumpsuit - sleeveless and low cut, no less. I can literally see where her arse begins and ends, and the fact she’s probably not wearing any knickers. She has paired said item with a cracking pair of shoes (which clearly aren’t made for doing ANY type of exercise in), and has a perfect pony tail and full face of make up on. WTF, I think to myself. It’s 6:30am. Just W.T.F is going on here?! Being a normal, rational woman, I turn to the mirror and think, “shit!”, but then I remember that I am, after all, in a gym and not at Spearmint Rhino on a Friday night. I feel better. The lady wanders off amongst the rowing machines and OAPs, not really doing a lot of, well, anything.
I finish my workout resembling what can only be described as a human beetroot and proceed to head out. Said lady (who by this point I assume must be an extra in The Only Way Is Essex)has given up on ‘the gym’, and by this I mean, trawling the place for men. "You’re too early, love!" I cry, in my head, and do a little sigh. Me - sweaty, red, borderline huffing and guzzling water like Lindsay Lohan downs vodka, and her - porno Barbie on a photo shoot. She minces out. I drag myself home, and ponder a gin-interlude.