Alright, so I stuck up a homemade sign on my kitchen
press that read You Fat Bitch in nice, bubbly letters. It was strictly for a laugh and to post up on
my blog. I removed it precisely two days
later when Screecher Creature No. 1 was kilt trying to pronounce Bitch using
his Jolly Phonics sounds. I did not want
him going into school and telling Munteoir about his new word. Can you imagine? I have mentioned the book Run Fat B!tch Run a few times now and I
can highly recommend it if anyone is trying to do exactly what it says on the
tin; run. It certainly got me up and
moving and I can now manage 3.2km comfortably enough. The lungs are screaming and I managed to
burst a blood vessel in my eye a couple of weeks back, but no matter, it’s
working and I am loving it. Putting
those words on my press was my idea; whereas the author recommends that you
scream them at yourself in the bathroom mirror each morning, whilst eyeing your
disgraceful naked state up and down.
That was never going to happen in my house. Whatever about Munteoir being called You Fat
Bitch, I didn’t want him getting the visuals to go along with it! Jayzus, lads! It’s all about mind games, this running lark,
about breaking through the pain barriers.
Should I stick in here that I like to swear? It’s not off topic. In the same way that a good old run (I love
saying that!) makes me feel great (despite the burning lungs and sweaty face!)
firing off the odd (ok, more than odd) expletive makes me feel fookin
marvellous!! I feel better almost
immediately. The stress levels come right down. It is not recommended, naturally enough that
you let rip in front of your kids, but hey, accidents happen. I reckon I’m seasoned enough at this stage
in the game to know that kids will regurgitate choice morsels at the most
inopportune moments. I really should
know better than to mutter the eff word under my breath in their presence
because I can be guaranteed that (a) they will hear it and (b) reproduce it in
front of polite company with perfect clarity.
How come you can repeat yourself until you are blue in the face with
orders such as eat your breakfast/tidy up/put on your shoes/leave your
brother/your nose/your behind/your willy alone and they act like they’ve never
heard it before. Yet the first time you
utter the eff word, it’s branded on their little brain and taken out to be used
against you? Another thing I have
admitted to doing is talking to myself.
So it goes something like this: I’m out running and going grand. I have my circuit and know it well. I use a
certain point along the way to stop and walk briskly if I need to catch my
breath. If you were bringing up the rear
you would most likely hear something like this.
“Come on! You can do it. Only a bit to go. Halfway through this song, get to the end of
it. FFS! Put your back into it. Christ, I can’t effin stop now, there’s a car
coming and I’d look stupid. (The main
road is part of my circuit) Jayzus, come
on! Effin drive, wouldja? I’m dying
here! Right, he’s gone. OhfortheloveofJayzus,
here’s one on the approach. Bollix!! I’m in bits come effin ON! I need to slow down and it’s bad enough
that you’re all probably laughing at me effin killin’ myself, I’m not giving ye the satisfaction of seeing me
stop!”
And so on and so on. Mind games, see. And before I know it, I’ve not only reached
my stopping landmark, but ran past it and whaddya know, I’ve pushed past that pain barrier they all
keep talking about, and I keep on running.
The jelly like shakes in my legs have gone off somewhere, my tongue has
become dislodged from the roof of my mouth, there is a most satisfying trickle
of sweat running down my back and a fan-fookin-tastic
song has just come on in my ear buds to give me that extra little burst of
energy to take me the final leg of the run!
‘Course, if I’d just shut up and run instead of talking to myself, I’d
probably knock another couple of minutes off my personal time by saving my
breath for the job in hand. Watch this
space!!!!
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