Does everyone have a miracle cupboard? A cupboard of promise? A rogue tea-bag, a stale quarter packet of Brazil nuts and out of date pills? I fear mine is breeding, mutations of chewable Vitamin C & oversized Cod liver oil capsules, they have their own lock to the cupboard and the weak cannot enter, it is for immune systems who can cope only.
I was just sucking on an energy gel prior to my shattering in Tabata: round 2, which I had earlier discovered in such cupboard, after asking the Hobbit from next door to force the lock. I believe the gel was purchased stuck to the front of a glossy fitness magazine, a promotional hoodwink that drew me in-this time last year, when I made similar promises to
bulk hulk up. It made the magazine feel like a quality purchase, a snip at £4.99 and so many advertisements to read! Thank you…but in 12 hours I would have a cover model physique, FACT.
The taste didn’t lead to any worry, the energy boosting gel tasted like what I imagine plastic surgery to taste like. The gold wrap, the fluorescent lies and list of energy performance substances were giving me the belief I would conquer Tabata (if you are wondering this is no Lance Armstrong confession)
The BB Date tattooed on the miniature sachet said 1st Jan 2012…so I spat it out and suffered another pounding of burpees, squats and planks. Even the brail magazines will refuse my cover audition. I puffed, I panted, I blew my lungs down. The cat likes my salty sweat though and licked my head upon a warm welcome home. Meow…you look ill. lick.
Forgive my lack of blog yesterday. I’ll simplify my excuse.
Football match (soccer) in freezing frost.
two pairs of socks.
Extra bloody time!
Tomorrow may be a struggle too, a late night teaching the staff room lot how to turn a computer on! They only come for the cakes.
The flurry of snow didn’t quite cause the tizzy I had hoped for. That tizzy being a day off work. Instead the staff-room was the usual draining affair, menopause and diets (spat through biscuits) and gossip over who may be the female phantom 2pm pooer. I do most of the draining I am sure, the miserable bastard who doesn’t like hearing about labour pains or massive poos whilst he eats his sandwich…call me touchy! The rest of the day involved a meeting in which, quite frankly, I wasn’t in, but I was, but wasn’t at the same time, it passed me by like a Big Issue Seller. The remainder of the day consisted of talks about our moral compass: mine is pointing North West due to the Big Issue seller.
I avoid the changing rooms these days, you only pick up influenza, athletes foot and a sight for sore eyes from Talc-Tackle-Ted & his scrotal spectacle…enough to scare you stiff. On editing that is a poor word choice. I’m talking of the gym, from whence I have come, which was done after my boring day and beans on toast. Wallace & Gromit: The Wrong Trousers was on the gym television, a source of enormous motivation to all. Call me a Doubting Thomas, but that on its own is hardly a surge of adrenaline but the fact it had subtitles several seconds behind the plasticine animation hardly made me row quicker. The Roly-Polys enjoyed it as they sat on the bikes, made a screening of it in fact, sausage roll crumbs and cheese & onion fingers washed down with an energy drink. The peddles were glad of the rest I am sure. I suppose they are easing themselves in, and I am sure they had to do that on entrance: greased the door frame and went in with the second class post and a good kick.
This moaning is all part of my crisis by the way: it defects from the arthritic pains and growing weakness that is catching me. It creeps up on you like the hair on your bum, which as we know is tugged from your scalp. In a sick turn of events I am booking myself back for a Tabata session, perhaps I didn’t make it clear to them first time I am actually this fragile. I wonder, if I ask nicely, do you think they will put Wallace & Gromit on?
You have called me Touchy and a Doubting Thomas today, stop it.
I am the Scribbler.
Just back from something called Tabata? Oh my Buddha! If I have not posted again for several days call someone, anyone will do, and tell them not to ever partake in Tabata. I don’t even know how you spell it, let alone know why people do it.
The only satisfying element was the realisation this mid-life crisis I have planned is timed just right. Forget fit as a butchers dog, I am as fit as a pork scratching, the butchers dog will gobble me up.
Lunge after press-up after squat after burpee after …I feel frail.
Would I have performed better wearing the tight vest that the old chap with vanishing sweaty hair wore? I doubt it. He was not Popeye. Ga ga ga.
But I need the spinach.
I’m off to slumber, I have ordered the crane to lift me in the morning.