No one likes a sweat patch

I've been very slack with updating my blog, and this has been for a variety of reasons.  Partly this is because I have been exceptionally busy at work, but actually it is mostly an excuse because the truth of the matter is that I've found myself in an odd place.  And I don't mean Leeds.

The internet dating thing has bored the pants off me of late (although not literally, sadly, since my pants have remained resolutely in place for a while now). I don't know quite how this happened - perhaps because I set my target age at older than my usual preferred fancy (come on, I'm in my - ahem, very very very late thirties, ok early-ish forties, there's only so long I can go perving at the 30 year olds) but I am not in the least bit interested in any one of my "quiver" matches (what is that anyway?) or my "recommendations".  Do I look like the kinda gal that wants to date a balding, middle aged bloke with a paunch?  If there are to be any middle aged paunches around these parts they'll be my paunches, thanks very much.

So, whilst I've decided that I'm not quite ready for pipe and slippers man, I have not quite worked out what my next move is.  Mr Gorgeous, JC remains complicated (even more so, if that's possible) and frankly I really can't be arsed with the effort required to start something new.  So, instead of working it out, I decided to work out.  And now I ache.  Jane Fonda, I aint.  I'm not even the Green Goddess (for those old enough to remember Diana Moran of BBC Breakfast Time fame in the 80s). 

But I did discover something in the gym.  I am utterly motivated by not allowing myself to be the fat bird on the treadmill who gives up after 6 mins.  I went along last night, strangely bouyed by a lovely but odd coffee meeting with the lovely MB which left me feeling that he was kindly mocking my gym efforts, and of course upon arrival at said sweathouse there were the usual array of manbeasts dripping and grunting over everything (oh God, another flashback I'd rather not have had). 

So up I hop onto the treadmill (I can just do that with dignity - I'm still not comfortable with the thought of a saddle wedgey) and start to run.  Well, perhaps fast walk is more appropriate, except I want to look cooler than just walking, so I sort of slow jog.  But I feel ridiculously conspicuous and like I am in slo-mo so I up the pace.  Only to find I can't breathe, so I slow it down again.  And so it continues.  After about 3 minutes I've had enough.  I am bored, embarrassed and uncomfortable.  I am wearing pale grey sweat pants - rooky error.  No one likes a sweat patch on their ass, especially after only 3 minutes.  And I'm afraid that I am not the type of gal who can get away with pulling a top down low to cover my ass either, or my mightily inquisitive breasts will simply pop right on out and say hello.

So what's a girl to do?  Fit boy, sweaty ass, bored 3 mins in.  Well I'll tell you what I did - I just kept on running.  Running and running and running.  I was like Forrest Gump - that kid had nothing on your old Elles.  And to my immense pride, not only did I complete my personal best in terms of distance, speed (eventually) and not dying, but I ended up thinking the sweat looked kinda cool.   And as I got off the weapon of torture, I even earned myself a little smile and a half wink from fitboy.   Not a bad evening's work, methinks.

On my own with a quarter crispy duck

Its Friday.  I love Fridays, always have.  Fridays were my favourite day of the week when my kids were younger, we'd curl up on the sofa and eat snacks while we watched Friends and it was perfect.  Just me and my babies against the world.

Then, as they got older and snacking on the sofa with mummy was less appealing than spending the weekends with their respective boyfriends/girlfriends etc, Friday's became my "me" time.  So many of my friends enjoy their Friday nights out, but not me, that's a Saturday in my world.  Make up, high heels, cocktails, stumbling home at 3am with my BFF* Jules - yes that's most definitely a Saturday.    Not a Friday.  Fridays are about PJs, take away food, bottles of wine and, depending on my mood, a good book or a rubbish movie.  Bliss.  My years with MB sort of modified that, but not that much - I still had my "me" time, but it was at his house, on his sofa rather than mine, with him and his silly diet food rather than on my own with a quarter crispy duck, shredded chilli beef, sweet and sour chicken and a chow mein (what can I tell you - I've got a big appetite), but still really, really lovely.  I do miss that.  Dammit, but I do.

But now, I'm discovering a whole new world of Friday.  Since "Dark Sunday" (as I think of that mournful day in February when the world as I knew it collapsed without warning) I haven't had a Friday in.  It's been a whirlwhind of weekends away, dates, nights out with the girls, nights in with the girls (and the boys) - even 80s house parties!  Whilst I still love a bit of "me" time, I think I quite like this alternate universe into which I appear to have stumbled.  In fact, I more than like it - I BLOODY LOVE IT! 

So the moral of today's story is - THANK GOD ITS FRIDAY!

*  Did I really just say BFF????  Shoot me now.

Deepest Darkest PMT

I've always been a little bemused at the idea of there being just one man for one woman, and vice versa and whilst I'd love to believe in soul mates, I'm afraid I just don't.  Not in the traditional sense, and not during my sensible, rational, waking hours anyway.  Given that there are over 7 billion people on this planet, is it really likely that The One just so happens to have gone to the same primary school as you, or shops in the same branch of Asda?  Isn't it far more likely that, if there is only one man for one woman, you are in all likelihood never going to cross paths with The One?   That, for me, is far too depressing for words.

But whilst I don't believe in soul mates in the traditional sense, I do believe in a soul mate of sorts, and my version is emminently more likely and achievable.

I believe a true soul mate is someone that makes you feel like YOU are The One.  Someone who gets you, loves you and supports you no matter what.  Someone who laughs with you, cries with you, doesn't mind (or notice) that you are imperfect.  Listens to your views, maybe shares them or maybe not. It doesn't matter.  It's someone who will forgive you when you are in the midst of deepest darkest PMT and you are being a BITCH!  Someone you know you can depend upon to stick around, even when the going gets tough.

And because of all this, I am going to make sure the next time I meet The One (and I will, dammit, I will) I will remind myself that this isn't The One.  I will instead enjoy being with This One.  And whilst it doesn't sound nearly as romantic and soul matey and committed it is, in my view, a far more forgiving approach and with the pressure off, who knows?  He may in time turn into The One...

Crossing my own moral line

My friends (and their often firmly held opinions) are very important to me, and therefore when someone expresses a view on something (or someone - ooh err) I am doing I take it on board.  I don't always agree with them, and I don't always share their view, but I do listen, absorb and consider.  And then, if I disagree, I disregard, but in the full knowledge that I have done so in the understanding of there being an alternate view.

I've been thinking a lot about JC. Mostly, to be honest, in terms of "phwoaaaahhhh" but, still.   Now, for various reasons I do not want or need to go into great detail about who or what he is, save that there is, as I have mentioned previously, a "complicated" situation.  This "complicated situation" is such that I can do pretty much what I like guilt free (remembering my golden rule) without fear of crossing my own moral line.  Sort of.  However, I have a slight sense of unease and for someone who really enjoys the moral highground I know I ought to back right off, right now.

 I know, I know, I'm being obtuse and vague, but you'll have to trust me on this.

However, a conversation I have had with a dear friend (again, I'm sure she'll be popping up from time to time so she's now to be known as Morocco) has made me think again.  Yes, yes, he's gorgeous, he's funny, he's bright - yada yada yada.  But he's still, well, COMPLICATED!  Back off - she screams.  Back off!  Oh, it's OK, I assure her, its fine.  It's just, well, complicated...

I know I can do better than that.  I want and deserve more.  Don't I?  Well frankly, right at this minute I don't know that I do want more than that.  I'm quite enjoying being single again - my weekends are my own to do what I like, no one telling me that my lovely new playsuit gives me camel toe (they were harem pants you idiot - how low do you think my labia hang for Chrissake).  Of course, in time, it will be nice to find all the things I want long term, but this is a lovely, selfish little interlude and I'm actually quite enjoying it.

But whilst I am waiting for Mr Perfect to drop by, can't I have a little fun with JC?  Just a little?  It doesn't have to be complicated... 

Because the alternative is internet dating.  Here's how the last date went:

Me:       What do you do for a living?
Him:      I sell stationery (proceeds to explain benefits of recycled over regular, various grammage etc.  this takes a good 5 mins)
Me:       Hmm.  OK. 

Silence whilst I try to think of intelligent stationery related question.  I can't.

Me:        What sort of music do you like?
Him:       Oh you know.
Me:        No, I don't really, what do you listen to?
Him:       This and that.
Me:        Ok.

Silence.

Me:        How old are your kids?
Him:      I don't like to talk about my kids.
Me:       OK.

More silence.

Me:       Do you like living in [town]
Him:      It's OK.
Me:      Oh.

Uncomfortable silence.

Me:       So, are self sealing envelopes still the most popular to buy?
Him:      (5 mins of envelope related drivel)
Me:      "Waiter, can I have the bill please?"

See where I am going with this?  Complicated is good, right?