I’m Not a Grump. I Just Don’t Like Everything

You know when people say “Smile! It’s not that bad” and “Oh come on, cheer up” etc? Last Sunday, I participated in my second ever fun run. I did not however, receive the memo about it being fun. Eighty percent of why it wasn’t fun was my fault, however I really should have thought it through before signing up to participate.

20130831-094621.jpg

I was ready to go, had my outfit laid out the night before and thought I knew where I was going.

Well you know what they say about assuming. I sure did make an ass of myself.

I ended up on the scenic route. Track work on the train line meant I needed a bus from Parramatta to Olympic Park. Then a connecting (all stations via the inner west line) train to the city. My 35 minute train ride became a one hour long journey.

Then my human error made it even longer!

20130831-094958.jpg
First hiccup

20130831-095051.jpg
Totally oblivious to it all

20130831-095119.jpg
Major hiccup

I got off the train at Circular Quay thinking the run was at the Botanical Gardens (derp). Texted my friend who tells me the correct info (it’s actually in the eastern suburbs, nowhere near the CBD) so I had to get back on the train and get to Moore Park.

20130831-095505.jpg
Back on the train

I finally got back to Central and onto a bus out to Moore Park. Then the bus driver got lost (!) and was asking the passengers for directions. One other runner looked up google maps on their iPhone and directed him. However he still managed to drop us off one whole kilometre from the start of the run.

I was still in text contact with my friend (the phone lines were jammed and I couldn’t get through). She waited as long as she could, however with me being so far away, she ended up having to start without me.

So I ran it on my own. Le sigh. I really should have given it more consideration. I hate three things in this world, dirt, overly happy people and crowds. The Color Run ticks all of these things.

Dirt. So much dirt! Overly happy people squirting coloured dirt in your face with over excited and happy people rolling around in the coloured dirt on the ground, giggling like maniacs among thousands of other giggling, dirty people running around throwing coloured dirt at one another.

Blergh.

If that makes people think that I’m a grumpy shit, I can live with that. I personally don’t think I’m a grump, just makes me like things different to everyone else.

One positive to come out of the run, was I did my first ever kilometre non stop jogging! I was slow, I did not do a PB, but I did not slow to a walk. That’s an achievement.

Then the journey home. (Please note the word journey). I had to walk over a kilometre back to the bus stop, then over a kilometre from the train station to the other bus stop to get home, to avoid taking a train and a just because of track work.

So yeah, I’m not doing that fun run again!

In This Skin

This week, something switched on in my brain and I’ve gotten more active. I’m running more, I’m eating better, I’m actively seeking fewer numbers on the scale. If I lose another 6 kilograms by Christmas, I’ll have lost 20 kilograms this year (that’s 44 pounds for my imperial buddies north of the equator). Currently I’m 2 kilograms off a BMI of 25. I’m so close to it, I can almost touch it.

Sadly though, my brain is not seeing the changes anymore. I look at my belly and I only see the big round ball the protrudes out. I only see the thunder-thighs that slap together in horrible wobble-like fashion. The cellulite that dimples on my legs like cottage cheese congealing in the sun.

It’s not fair. I know I’m not a super-model and never will be. Frankly, I do not want to be like those waif women who need to wear a padded bra or tights under their jeans for curves. So why can’t I look at myself and not be disgusted? Why do I only see my ‘imperfections’. I saw a video of myself the other day from when Missy was about 12 months old. I was huge. Enormous. My breasts were over filling the singlet top. My clavicles were well hidden under a good layer of adipose tissue. My ankles had and extra serving of ankle and my chins were deep in conversation with each other.

When I compare myself to that version of me, I can see the changes. However when I stand in front of the mirror in the morning while getting dressed, all I see are the things that still need improving. The bits that I still don’t like (let alone love). I forget that I was a lot bigger and I’ve already done so much work to get to here. I know in my head that I’m proud of what I have achieved, but I can’t translate that pride to being happy in my own skin.

Apologies in advance for this one

Lessons in Greek, which are similar to how I learned Italian and Vietnamese in school. Funny funny stuff!

RoboMum

It feels like ages since I’ve #IBOTed.

I miss my Tuesdays terribly but life is running at one hundred miles an hour.  Time gets away too quickly.

I have been marking junior narratives since last week and I think I’ve finally lost my marbles.

Feeling a bit cray cray.

 

 

3r0ulg

 

 

So I thought I’d take a break, write a quick post, say hello and impart some late night/early morning useless information.

 

 

Did you know this?

 

The Greek word for torch is φακός pronounced, fuck-oh.

Greek lentils are φακή. That’s right, fuckee.

An envelope is a φάκελος.  Say it with me, fuck-el-os.

 

Γάμo, that’s Gahmo, is the Greek word for ‘wedding’ but with the accent on the ‘o’, as in Gahm-oh, it means fuck.

 

Incidentally, Hollywood actor Charlton Heston had a hard time in Greece.  His name, Χεστον, that’s…

View original post 40 more words