When “Grand” and “Under Control” isn’t really Grand and Under Control

Life as they say, is a roller coaster, or maybe it’s a box of chocolates?  Either way you really don’t know what it is going to throw at you at any time.  Well, life has proven to be a bit crazy for me in the past few years, and every time when I think that everything is ticking along nicely, even a bit boringly then something comes along to give me a kick in the arse to remind me that yes this is life and sleepwalking through it will ultimately see me getting rudely awakened by some random nightmare.  There’s been a few in the past couple of months, some minor and some not so, but I won’t get into those right now-time and place and all that.  Today, I was happily sleepwalking, reading some rather in-depth journals for my looming thesis (it’s due in six weeks, hence the lack of blogging lately), I was in the zone and felt like I was in charge.  Usually it feels like the thesis is in charge so this was a pretty good feeling, and a pretty rare one too. Anyway, the husband comes home from taking our youngest to his rugby game and he is all action-mowing lawns, collecting hay, and generally being quite useful.  Uh oh, it all sounds too good to be true, my study is going well, the jobs are getting done, the sun is shining, the husband is being useful-get the picture?  Yep, well it really was too good to be true, I knew it wouldn’t last forever-call me a pessimist but 47 years on this earth has taught me a thing or two, like when things are going well, I mean really well , then the universe dictates that there needs to be a bit of balance so it goes about fucking things up -just to liven things up a bit and wake you out of your slumber! Sorry, excuse my language-but that is the best way to describe how my perfect day was ruined-it was fucked up, the universe dictated it!  Anyway, I digress, you are wondering what the heck I am talking about, so far I have told you nothing so let me get to the point. 

The husband decided to tidy up the property, which was great-until he discovered the matches… yep those little wooden things with the red tips, they look harmless but in the wrong hands can be lethal!!!!!  Anyway, I must remind you if I have not said it already, that we live in a conservation area where the wildlife thrives, kiwi and ruru call at night and many species which have been on the brink of extinction have been given the chance of a second life.  It really is paradise, but today it came close to being consigned to the history books thanks to the husband.  Now before I go any further, perhaps play the Prodigy song ‘Firestarter’ as background music, it really helps to set the scene.  So the husband’s idea of “tidying up” involved lighting a fire to burn the hay which he had collected up.  He explained to me his plans, and although I suggested it may not be such a good idea, he proceeded to light the fire- “sure, it will be grand” he said.  Well, grand it was not.  After an extremely dry summer and autumn, the fire took off, and before I could say “are you sure?”, the bushes were on fire and the fire was spreading fast.  Yet he still was telling me it was “grand”, that it was “under control”.  I began to doubt this when random people, some strangers, started arriving to help with the “grand” job that was “under control” (thank you to all those wonderful people and neighbours).  Now, I must say that my blood pressure was feeling like it was going through the roof and I was seriously doubting that it was “grand” and “under control”.  It was when I could see the flames shooting up a tree and I could hear it cracking and popping that I decided that no it was not “grand” or “under control”, and that is when I called the local fire service. 

The fire service came and put the fire out and finally it was “grand” and “under control”.  The local volunteer fire service that is, the fire service with all the volunteers who are locals who live in our small community.  People who know us on a first name basis-yep you can imagine the embarrassment!  I will admit that I was quick to let them know that my husband was in sole charge of the “grand” and “under control” fire-he can have the notoriety of nearly burning down the entire peninsular all to himself!  A couple of dozen beers dropped off at the fire station will hopefully show them how grateful we are for their help, and I promised them that the husband will never light a fire ever again!!! As for me, I am heading back to the thesis-hopefully life will return to a moderate sleepwalk for a bit longer!

Just one last thing before I become studious again, a big thank you to our local volunteers, they do so much for our communities and probably don’t get the recognition they deserve.  They rock!

Getting back into the Fitness Swing of Things

Following on from my last blog on running, I thought I would continue the theme of exercising in your forties, which for me, is a completely different experience to exercising in my twenties. I follow fitness guru, Jillian Michaels on Instagram, she is amazing, I used to do her on-line classes.  She is in her forties, fit as, and a body to match.  She is my idol, and how I wish I look when I am having a pity picnic and hating the person I see looking at me in the mirror.  I realise of course that I will never have a body like her, but it doesn’t hurt to aspire to great heights.  However, my ill-discipline will probably stop me from ever getting anywhere close.

 I started back at my local fitness class last week after an extremely slothful and alcohol fuelled summer holiday.  Now when I say slothful and alcohol fuelled, that doesn’t mean I did zero exercise and drank myself stupid every day.  What I mean is that I managed a walk or run most days (to keep my sanity of being home with the kids during the long, long school holidays) and drank alcohol on a regular basis (one or two glasses a night, most nights).  For me, this is significant for several reasons.  Firstly, my body, as I have discovered, loves fat.  When I say loves fat, I mean it loves to accumulate fat at every opportunity, be it through a lack of hard out exercise, or through drinking alcohol and eating crap. Secondly, if it gets even a whiff of a slowdown in the exercise department then it thinks it needs to pad itself. For what I don’t know-a famine?  I had decided that this Christmas and summer holidays, I was not under any circumstances going to do what I have done every year by taking my foot off the brake and wallowing in excess.  I bought myself some weights to supplement my in residence medicine ball and vowed to work out three times a week in addition to my running, while my usual fitness class was on a Christmas break.  Who was I kidding, I must have done three workouts all up.  My excuse, none really, just pure laziness, and we are having one of the hottest summers in years which would put anyone off exercise after 9am in the morning (actually not everyone, I have seen some crazies out there running at midday).

So last week I hauled my ever growing arse back to the gym in order to stop the spread.  Now, the class is not for the faint hearted, it is a 40 odd minute class of sprinting, boxing, weights, and other exercises with names like frogz, burpees, press ups, planks.  You get the idea, it’s no walk in the park, and it makes running with seagulls seem like a breeze.  But, it gets results, and Steve our instructor never gives us the easy option, no matter how much we whinge (and I whinge a lot).  It is so hot on my first day back that I am sweating even before we have done the warm up.  So you can just imagine how I look by the end.  Sweat is running off me, it’s like I have spent an hour in a sauna, I am sweating in places I never knew I could sweat.  My legs are shaking, and I am hoarse from complaining about every single exercise we have had to do.  But I am feeling extremely pleased with myself-I can imagine that my clothes will definitely be looser after that workout-if only from a loss of fluids from all of the sweating.  And I have managed to finish the class without vomiting or passing out-two great accomplishments.  I think of myself as being like that meme that has been going around social media, the one with the fit woman versus the elephant-what I think I look like, and what I actually look like.  Yep, I do not look like the fit girl-think more baby elephant!  Things wobble, I can’t touch my toes, the list goes on, but I am there doing it, so I am up there with that girl, regardless of what I look like.

Since then, I have been back twice-the morning classes only run twice a week and my enthusiasm wanes by evening, so evening classes are out of the question.  I had my third class today, and it definitely feels better than the first-although the legs were still shaky, and tomorrow I won’t be able to sit on the toilet without wincing.  I managed to whinge through the whole session too, which I reckon is testament to a good workout, if I didn’t complain then that would probably mean it was too easy.  And I was able, most of the time, to keep up with the thirty somethings, no small feat at times.  So far, the body looks the same, I guess I need to learn some patience-hard in a society of instant gratification.  I will stay in the oldies corner, as it was called today, and keep reminding myself that although I will never look like Jillian Michaels, I’m not doing too bad at all.

Running with the Seagulls.

Most mornings I get up early and go for a run or a walk. I love the time to myself, the quiet of the morning when others are still at home, when it is pretty much just me and nature. The world seems different at that time of the day, and I find it is a time when I can reflect on life and its issues, think up new writing ideas, and solve the world’s problems all at the same time. It sounds idyllic, imagine having the world to yourself, even for only an hour. And idyllic it is, until the seagulls turn up. You may ask what is wrong with seagulls, what could they possibly do to ruin my zen moment? Never mind those seagulls who have been stealing food out of people’s hands. Don’t even consider those which decide to shit just at the precise time so it lands on your favourite top/in your hair, as you arrive at that crucial interview or social event. Those seagulls have nothing on the ones I encounter on a regular basis.

As I run, I am surrounded by the sea on one side, and tree covered hills on the other. It’s a beautiful route, and I am fully appreciative of my surroundings. I am in the zone, thinking I run like a professional, although my laboured breath suggests otherwise-I really do need to get a reality check sometimes. And then I round the corner, and as I run along the bay, it starts. The sound is undeniable, a piercing angry screech. Something sounds really pissed off. Looking up, I see first one, then two, and sometimes up to six very angry looking seagulls. Now, you may ask how I know they are angry, well it’s not so much their looks, as their actions.

As soon as they are close enough, they take it in turns to dive bomb me. I can tell you now, that to be dive bombed by a seagull is not a pleasant thing, and in fact can be a little bit intimidating (read terrifying). Think ‘Running of the Bulls’ with feathers. They swoop so low that I can almost smell the fish that they had for breakfast. This aerial assault lasts for several minutes, they follow me for 500 metres or more, not giving up even when I try hiding under trees, before eventually going back to their beach, and presumably their young, but not before I have made a complete and utter idiot of myself. I am reduced to looking like a mad woman, running along, arms flailing in the air, yelling at them to go away. It is quite a sight apparently, as my husband discovered when he was driving to work, early one morning. He drove around the hill, into the bay, only to be confronted with me running much faster than usual, with half a dozen seagulls in pursuit, and a look of pure terror on my face. He said he was laughing so much that he nearly crashed the car. The unfortunate part is that I have to run back past them on my way home, there is no alternate route to take. On the upside, my husband now believes me when I tell him that seagulls are trying to kill me!

So the image I have of myself running with grace and athleticism has been crushed by a handful of seagulls. I have come to the realisation that my days of being an athlete are over, I will never be the same runner as I was in my twenties, those days are long gone. However, I will keep plodding on, as much for the calm it brings to my mind as for my fitness, and I will tell you this for nothing, those seagulls will never get the better of me. #Never give up.

A New Year

January, a time of resolutions, navel-gazing, and new beginnings. Also a time of excess, and breaking newly made resolutions and intentions. I started this blog just before Christmas, my intention was to finally do what I have been saying I would do for years-write a blog about growing up, and the trials and tribulations of life in your forties. However, Christmas, being the crazy time of the year that it is, put my plans of writing in this blog on the back burner, and being the serial procrastinator that I am, saw January arrive and be two weeks old before I finally sat down to write. Write what though? Write something of course, but now my mind has gone blank, and all of those amazing ideas I had while running (well probably more a crawl than a walk, and sometimes mainly a walk, but running sounds more impressive) have disappeared into the deepest recesses of my mind.

So I will start from the beginning, and I can work on it from there. Forty seven years old, husband, children, chooks (hens if you don’t live in New Zealand), currently trying to finish my thesis for my Master degree in English. Still trying to figure out what I want to do when I “grow up”. What does growing up even mean? Does it mean having a job, getting married, having children? Nah, I have all of that and at the age of 47, I still don’t feel like I have “grown up”. I still grapple with the fact that yes I live in a beautiful part of the world, I have a loving and patient husband, awesome kids, yet I still haven’t reached that point where I can honestly say that I have grown up. Perhaps when I finally reach my career goal (when I figure out what that is), then I will feel grown up? Perhaps.

Mind you, the whole concept of being a grown up and having your shit together seems to have taken on a whole new meaning thanks to the advent of social media. Now growing up appears to mean you have the perfect life, and that life has to be documented on social media in order for everyone else to see just how perfect it is. From glotos on Facebook, to filtered pictures on Instagram, many people appear to have the most wonderful, perfect lives. This causes us mere mortals, who do not have a six pack or gym body, who don’t have a show house worthy home, to question our own less than instagramable lives. How many of us have looked at these posts and wondered where we have gone wrong? Why don’t we have a photographic gym body or postable five star meals? Well, I am here to reassure you that you are not alone. I too, do not have a six pack which I care to share with a wider audience, and fancy dinners are few and far between, and anyway who gives a rat’s arse what I am having for dinner. If I put my life on Instagram, it would consist of photos of a messy house, puffy eyes in the morning, and a six pack hidden by a good layer of fat, which nobody really wants to see. Reality.

So this blog is about reality, my reality. Sometimes wonderful, other times crappy, laughter, tears, anger, the whole deal. I hope others will be able to relate to it, and agree with me that sometimes life is shit, and things just aren’t going how you want them to, or you just don’t know what life is meant to be doing. It’s ok, you are not alone, if nothing else this honest woman is on a similar roller coaster. Happy New Year!