Friday the Thirteenth
So I just wish my period would hurry up and arrive. Not because I’m in danger of pregnancy, you understand, but because I need confirmation that my current mood swings/ fatness/ general propensity to cry are down to the Magic Cycle, and are not just ‘me’. Consider the evidence:
1. I cried watching ‘Poms in Paradise’ on Friday night. When Carol’s 83 year old Mum finally made it over to Sydney to see her successful hair salon. And they turned her balloons around so they read ‘38’. Oh, the hilarity.
2. And also reading a Doctors script in the office yesterday.
3. (Insert own comment here re: above).
4. EVERYONE is annoying me. The rest of the office are crunching their Crunchy Nut Clusters in a manner especially cultivated to annoy me. I can tell.
5. Yesterday I was driving home from the gym and an awesome song came on the radio. I turned it up, grooving along, (that’s right – grooving), thinking ‘Gee, Capital are rocking the airwaves tonight, I’ll be downloading this bad boy as soon as I get home!’ Do you know who that song was by? Justin Bieber! Something along the lines of I’ll be your Boyfriend/ Let me be your Boyfriend/ If I was your Boyfriend…. And no I’m not trying to look cool by not knowing the title. That ship has, quite plainly, disappeared into the ether.
Basically I need to remember that I am, in the words of my sister, Sparky, and not A Miserable Bitch From Hell. And that – normally - I am not the kind of person who enjoys saccharine teenage pop.
Apart from Willow Smith of course. But she’s not a teenager yet is she. (Is she?)
Anyway. Whilst I am in a grumpy menstrual state of mind, I thought I would share 2 annoyances of the recent weeks. The first is: Happy People’s Facebook updates. Yes, I know it’s nice to share with the world when you’ve had a great breakfast, and even inserted a photo so we can all see it too - after all, nobody knows what scrambled eggs look like – but some people should just be banned. Take Exhibit A – an old schoolfriend, who had just given birth, updated as follows:
My darling lawrence born at home last night at 9.26pm under the magical watch of a full moon and in the presence of his loving daddy and angel like midwives Louise and belinda. An amazing experience in a room of soft candle light and beautiful music...a stunning ten and a half pound bundle of love took his rightful place in our home. Thank you for all your love and support ...liliana and Leon are in complete baby love for lawrence...and the tears of love continue too well as I watch us all enjoy the presence of our new family member. Life is full of magic and wonder. X night x
And if your response to the above was anything other than vague nausea, I suggest we review our friendship tout suite.
The second thing is, when is it appropriate to use kisses and emoticons in emails/ texts? I think I am confused by working in the media world – where everybody is so lovely daaaaaahling and if you don’t add a kiss at the end of a message it looks like you’re absolutely furious. But in the real world (and by that I mean the fitness world) when are you just being friendly, and when are you flirting? I am referring especially to the use of those smiley winky face emoticons. If you wink at someone in Real Life, it’s flirty, so then when you use them in a text are you flirting? Or are you being funny, LOL?! (Normally, not). Or are you using the smiley winky face in place of a kiss because the kiss looks too flirty? And then how many kisses is appropriate? And should you use upper or lower case – cause does upper case mean more love?
God it’s a minefield.
;) xxxxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
27.03.12
Well, this week isn’t going to plan. So far this morning I have dropped the best yoghurt in the world all over the floor (mango and passionfruit, Aldi, since you ask), been asked if I was teaching this morning - ‘I can tell by your hair’ - and STILL HAVEN’T HEARD BACK FROM MR GYM.
What are the rules? They are beyond me. I decided, having not heard from him by Thursday, that I would drop him a bright, breezy email. *Bright and breezy*. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to write it first thing in the morning straight after a 645 body pump class and 2 rather strong coffees. I wrote what was, in my opinion, a hilarious little anecdote on the dubious joys of compiling the Soap Awards clips (being locked in a darkened room with a middle aged male editor), and - I thought – struck just the right note of ‘Hi I’m still here/ But I’m hilarious don’t you want to be my Jack?’ When I’d not heard from him 24 hours later I asked the Office Blonde to read it for me. She didn’t laugh, but said, rather carefully, ‘yeah it’s good. You’ve showed him a flavour of your personality’. In a tone which implied that personality, in this instance, equated to neediness/ eccentricity/ plain weirdness. And my sister always said I was Sparky.
Which brings me on to this year’s Soap Awards. This will probably be the last time I ever get to go, and this year I am determined not to throw up/ cry/ challenge random C List celebrities to push up competitions in the hotel bar (I won FYI)/ have my silver princess shoes drizzled on by non-celebrity semen. Yay, Soap Awards 2012!
2 final thoughts for this week.
I went for a drink on Friday eve and we were discussing various couplings at work. They mentioned a certain couple who had got together and I said, ‘No! That can’t have happened – he’s married’. The looks of pity I was given by everyone else at the table - and their tone as they said sadly ‘Oh Sarah’ – made me want to weep. IS NOTHING SACRED?!!
Last night I was confronted by a member of the Birmingham Gym Mafia after my pump class, asking me why I had played all the same tracks as last week, they were all boring, I better play something different tomorrow cause my class had sent her to sleep. Right. Normally I might have laughed this off but after a 13 hour day and teaching for 2 hours I had a bit of a sense of humour failure. So I have compiled a list of Instructor Universal Truths:
1. Accept that some members will, unaccountably
1. , hate you. It doesn’t matter if you play all their favourite tracks, beam at them with your most winning smile during the class, or bring in special treats during the holidays. ESPECIALLY if you bring in treats during holidays. They will be suspicious of your motives (buying the love/ unprofessional/ trying to make them fat). The sooner you make peace with the fact that some members that hate you, the sooner we can all move on with our hamstring stretches.
2. If another instructor decides to participate in your class, the following is guaranteed to occur: you will forget the choreography; the microphone will stop working (but not at the start of the class – generally in the middle of the class, during track you know least and therefore need to concentrate the most); the CD will skip; you will call that instructor by the wrong name even though you’ve texted them a million times asking for cover.
3. Remember, if in doubt, ‘step touch’. Unless the class in question is Body Pump. In which case the answer is, two two.
4. Men: pay attention. You are going to be squatting and lunging during class. Remember – your audience will be primarily women and gay men. Ensure your groin coverage is not going to require a red light.
5. Ditto for women. If you are going to wear short shorts, make sure you’re Lady Garden Ready when it comes to adductor stretches.
And the Virgin (ha ha) Boys want to be mentioned. So Dan, Joe, Seb, one word: Electric Toothbrush.
March 18 2012
OK I am officially giving up on trying to have a love life. I’ve been thinking this weekend and am pretty sure the universe is sending me a clear message to focus my energies elsewhere. Let’s consider the evidence for 2011 moving into 2012:
Exhibit A: The guy I met in the gym, let’s call him Barney, who in a rush of carpe diem and bravery I gave my number to last summer. Thus followed a series of texts in which he called me, ‘me lover’, ‘me sugar’ and finally, ‘me chicken nuggit’. And yes, I do know how to spell nugget correctly. English Lit and Lang with Honours, thank you very much. And no, he wasn’t black – in case you were also wondering. Just a Shaggy wannabe.
Exhibit B: The body combat instructor who texted me sporadically throughout 2011/ 2012, generally making comments about my legs and asking me what ‘I’m gonna do for him?’ What will I do for you? Well, for a start I’ll help you with your spelling – the last text I had from him informed me that he couldn’t ‘offered’ a hotel. Oh. My. God.
So are we seeing a pattern here? I guess the main takeaway from these stories is that I should stop trying to pick up men in the gym and spend more time in Waterstones, where at least I’m in with a fighting chance (and your and you’re are not the same things FYI).
So anyway, back to this weekend. I’ve been emailing another boy from the gym (no - I don’t learn quick) and suddenly he mentioned he’d be in Birmingham this weekend. Friday therefore turned into the most agonising day of how long to leave it before replying to an email, and then when he texted how long to leave it before replying to the text… I roped in anyone who was unlucky enough to be sitting near to my desk on Friday for their advice, including any unwitting cast members who wandered into the office and were unlucky enough to make eye contact. It’s a freaking minefield!! Everyone had different advice and by the time I came home I had analysed to death what essentially came to one email and 2 text messages. And ensured that most people in the office were no longer talking to me. Brilliant.
Anyway, Saturday came and went and by the time 9pm rolled around and I still hadn’t heard from him, I did what any self-respecting 31 year old does when they are at home feeling rejected on a Saturday night. That’s right – I made my hot water bottle, found a squashed yet still edible Mars Bar, and lay on my bed watching ‘My So Called Life’ – the one where Angela has a spot – and cried like my 15 year old self did when I used to listen to Radiohead after 2 many bottles of Hooch at The Dome (II). Pathetic? Absolutely. But I did feel better by the time Jordan had ignored her for the millionth time and she decided that it’s the inner beauty that counts.
Anyway, the upside to this story is that he did finally text me back this morning – on his way to the airport to fly back to far-away lands. But it’s OK – I’ve found the episode of MSCL where Jordan doesn’t turn up to meet Angela’s parents. One of the most devastating episodes of drama ever filmed. I’m going to be just fine.
03.12.11
The Christmas Party
Great news! I survived another Christmas party and managed, for the first time ever, not to (a) throw up and have to be carried into a people carrier whilst flashing my pants (b) weep inconsolably on a hapless director who asked me why I don’t have a boyfriend (c) pull a Ginger (d) have someone who is SO NOT AN ACTOR FROM EMMERDALE spunk on my silver princess shoes or (e) wake up with a hangover from hell and my smoky eyes transformed into a teenage goth from The Foundry. Thank you, Mr Alka Seltzer and Age.
I suppose this is called ‘maturing’, or just getting sensible. There was a moment, when I was in the taxi on Broad Street and everyone was jumping out to enjoy the dubious delights of the Grosvenor Casino, when I did consider carrying the party on, but then I paused. I wanted a Tesco Finest mince pie. My feet hurt. Everyone had suddenly started getting far too fake showbiz and/ or pervy. One of the actors had just tried to confront me about him finding me being intimidating/ intimidated (I’m still not too sure which – it was all getting a bit surreal at this point). I don’t know how to gamble. I hated working on Hustle. Most importantly, the chances of flagging down another taxi if I did decide to exit this one were looking slim to none. I had my chariot. The taxi driver wasn’t acting too much like a rapist. I knew where my Mum had hidden the mince pies. Rock’n’roll? Maybe not. All I know is, I made my cup of tea and fell asleep before I had managed to taste it or take a bite of the mince pie. I’ve still got said pie to eat this morning. Who’s laughing now, party animals?
Also, I managed to stay away from my old foe, white wine. Sure, I drank too much Red Bull and consequently felt what must have been the early stages of a heart attack all night, but I think it’s the evil grape that makes me cry and projectile vomit in Mailbox Latin themed nightclubs. So from my smug not-too-drunk vodka vantage point, I have come up with the following Christmas part do’s and don’ts:
- Do stick to one drink. Why is it that a free bar makes people feel cheated if they don’t try out everything the tab has to offer, like some nausea-inducing pick’n’mix. Amaretto and cranberry, jagerbombs and Carling: NEVER a good mix.
- Don’t flirt with your boss unless you’re pretty sure they’ve had as much to drink as you have.
- Avoid the script department (specifically for TV parties). They will invariably have some nervous writer with them who knows absolutely nobody, and the script editor will foist them upon you without regret or conscience. Thus leaving them to dance the night away whilst you try and come up with something complimentary to say about the writer’s latest Alzheimer’s episode.
- Don’t be the sad person at the end of the night looking drunk and lost at the bar.
- Don’t try and dance to Beyonce’s Single Ladies. Especially relevant if you are a single lady or gay man. Just too cringey for words.
I’ve just seen on Facebook my friend has posted ‘off to bed at 0634am, thank you wrap party’. Yeah? Well I was in bed at 0314am, WITH mince pie, no regrets at all. I think we all know who was the winner in this particular anecdote.
Think on, revellers.
Men are from Essex….
I’ve decided, I am officially at a loss to fathom the workings of the male mind. (And to understand Pure Maths 3, but happily mechanics and statistics are now a distant memory). After debating with almost everyone I knew (and some strangers who wish were unfortunate enough to meet me at crisis point), I decided against having Essex Boy to stay. It just seemed all a bit scary and stressful and not the kind of thing I would want to put on my Sex CV. Anyway, having told EB that he was no longer welcome, he seemed absolutely fine and said we could rearrange. When I asked if he had any more plans to visit Birmingham his generous response was (and I quote) “ill be in midlands anytime if it worth my while”.
And I thought Romance was dead. Although the ship for grammar and punctuation clearly never docked at this particular landing.
So what we do think? “if it worth my while”… do you suppose he means the end of season sale at Selfridges? Or perhaps he has heard about the joys of Mr Egg at the end of a night spent sampling the joys that the Arcadian has to offer (Reflex and Missing, to name but a few). Or maybe EB rather more disreputable sales on his mind. Either way, I wasn’t responding to that. And so it was that I received another message later on checking if I received his text, and enquiring whether he had said anything ‘wrong’. No, you saviour of chivalry, you’ve positively set my heart aflutter.
In other news I had my teeth bleached on Friday morning - £45 instead of £195 seemed like a fair deal to me. The guy was lovely, the treatment quick, but I looked at my teeth this morning and concluded that after spending £45 of hard earned cash (or, to be more precise, the limit of my overdraft), enduring forty minutes trying not to leak rivers of saliva out the side of my mouth and 48 hours eating nothing but white foods has left me with teeth that look… exactly the same. In all fairness I think my teeth were fairly white to begin with, and the technician was extremely enthusiastic. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man more excited about bleaching teeth. It was almost worth the pain of the hydrogen peroxide to witness his delight at the fact that he had been given a radio for the day (turning up Radio 1 – ‘I’m having my own little disco in here Sarah!’) and hearing his conversation with his dog walker in minute detail ‘leave that light on, but turn off the porch – I’m not made of money for the electric’. When you’re trying not to focus on the excruciating pain exploding through your gums, hearing about the dentist’s energy bills is strangely fascinating.
Discovery #1: eating white food is boring. And fairly nutritionally empty. I never realised how much I depend on coffee until I was told I couldn’t drink it for 24 hours. And then I was only permitted to drink it through a straw. Bad times indeed.
Dilemma
So the question of the day is, do I invite Combat Boy to see me in Birmingham or not?
I met him recently at a workshop for instructors and he gave me a bit of chat along
the lines of ‘your combat technique isn’t very good, but I might be able to
help….’ – classic fitness instructor flirting – and then emailed yesterday and
called me this morning. He lives down south but has to go north for a fitness
convention and mentioned that it would be much better for him if he could break
the 5 hour journey by stopping ‘somewhere’. By which I took him to be hinting
that he would like to stop in Birmingham, although of course I might be
completely misreading the signals and he actually fancies a bacon barm in Salford
Precinct (home to the August riots).
Anyway, I think I would like to see him, but
I’m a bit concerned about how what will be expected of my vagina. S and J,
my advisers in all things male, have told me that he will definitely be
expecting sex. Or, in J’s words, ‘to bash you as soon as he arrives’.
Wonderful. But in this case he wouldn’t be coming up especially to see me – he’d
be en route to another engagement and I’d literally be the refreshment stop (in
a manner of speaking) on his journey. And he’s quite shy. At least, he told me
he was quite shy, but my sister pointed out that this might just be a brilliant
chat up line. The point is, if I invite him to see me in Birmingham, will he
take this as a free pass to entreat upon my Lady Garden or will he just fancy
half a Stella and a nice chat about fitness?
I think I may just wait and speak to the MW tonight. Surely the MW (married
woman) will have some sage words of advice.
