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.