Fat as a fiddle

Fat as a fiddle

In a moment of intense private humiliation, I realised what was wrong with my goggles just before I started swimming. They were upside down.

Yeah... I looked pretty dorky.

I don’t mean I ONLY realised what was wrong with them now (though the fact that they were upside down was a problem now as well) but rather I realised what had been wrong with the goggles over the past fortnight. ‘So that’s why they kept filling with water’, I thought as I snapped them over my swimming cap.

This wasn’t my first swimming catastrophe as Mission Succexy 2011 took off with spectacular dedication in January. Last year I learnt that if you’ve forgotten both your socks and your goggles, rather cycle with sweaty feet than swim with burning, hell-fire red eyes. Virgin Active doesn’t mess around with their chlorine levels.

But this year, the Year of the Rabbit, I learnt (1) which way goggles go and (2) to remove ALL make-up before swimming. In yet another moment of not-so-private, but nonetheless deeply shameful humiliation, I realised that if you don’t remove all your make-up, and are wearing your goggles upside down (thus allowing them to fill with water), rubbing your eyes because of the chlorine will result in black circles around your eye sockets. Yes, dear readers, I looked like a panda and the stare from Mr Hottie was not flirtatious at all.

Swimming has also resulted in some curious incidents: like when a key fell out of costume after a half hour of laps. During the swim I felt something weird down my back, but it was only when I stepped into the shower and heard a CLANG as I took my costume off that I saw the key.

I still don’t know what the key opens or how it got there.

Aside from swimming, the world of exercise can be a very hazardous place.

Example one: my running route.

It has three horrendous, heinously taxing uphill sections. Like (thunder, lightning!) MOLTENO ROAD.

molteno road
Molteno road is so steep cars struggle up it; their engines groaning and moaning like the-little-train-that-almost-could. And that’s with horsepower. My short legs struggle up the increasing steepness step-by-step… while my fit friend Kelli dashes up at a jog, running back when she gets to the Olympian peaks to fetch me (like in the war movies: “No one gets left behind!”).

The only silver lining is something I read recently: chocolate milk is more hydrating than water after a run. I don’t ask why, I just smile. Hello Steri Stumpie!

steri stumpie empty
Kelli has taken it upon herself to train me. So (the sweet, sadistic angel) forces me to RUN UPHILL and, last Saturday (I kid you not) she made me do SPRINTS. SPRINTS. As in, sprinting. Sets of sprints. SPRINTS. I can’t emphasise this enough. After all, as they say, whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you very, very tired and slightly homicidal.

molteno road
Example two of hazardous exercise: the squat Nazi. This is a gym instructor with a penchant for making his class squat, lunge and pant for a ceaseless, nightmarish hour.

Or I could do what Orson Welles suggests: “My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four. Unless there are three other people.”

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4 thoughts on “Fat as a fiddle

  1. OOPS! Did I forget to mention that I fitted you with a chastity belt? That key unlocks it now that you are over 21 🙂

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