When it comes to writing twaddle, I’m an expert. I’m also an expert in getting the wrong end of the stick, making cock ups, having accidents and saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But hey, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t upset someone somewhere.
You know where this is leading, you see I’ve done it again, and let me tell you something, this time, I was really wrong.
It all began on Thursday. I Box, well actually, I go into the gym and I hit the hell out of a punch mit held by a rather dishy looking Personal trainer. I am if I do say so myself quite good at it, as I’ve had plenty of practice. No, that doesn’t mean that I have had a misspent youth of fighting and brawling, (and if I had, I wouldn’t be telling you. It was never proven and I’m not giving the police any evidence they haven’t already got.) I have however been hitting a punch bag and sparring since a very young age. So, hitting a mit held by a relatively inexperienced PT is just a bit a fun for me.
I finished my session by taking a stroll on the treadmill and then a swim. It really makes me sound as though I’m a fitness goddess, doesn’t it? Trust me, I’m not, for all the exercise I’m still a portly size X. Arhhh you see you almost had me telling you my fat secrets. Not going to happen!
I walked into the steam room and sat quietly in the corner. There were three others in the room, two women who just wouldn’t shut up and a man lying on the bench in the corner, and before you ask, no I can’t give you a graphic description of him, it was steamy.
The women left and it was just the two of us, and he was tapping gently to himself. Someone came in and shouted for Marg, I made the assumption that “he” wasn’t Marg and so told the woman that she wasn’t in there. And after ten minutes or so, I left for my shower. I was shattered, it was at that point that I realised that at the grand old age of 50+, going at it like I was 30 something was a bit of a mistake.
Shower done, I decided to forgo my coffee and go home, before my legs gave way and I was unable to pedal back, oh yer, I’m still on pedal power, even with the electric power assist it’s still leg work.
There he was, not ugly, not pretty, just rugged, and red, very red, sitting waiting in the car, outside the gym, I had no idea he was waiting for me, I assumed there would be some blonde-haired beauty that would appear and climb into the passenger seat.
“How’s it going?” I looked into the car.
“OK,” And who the fluff are you, do I know you, are you someone’s husband, or a friend of a friend? Have I been cheeky to you at some time and not recognise you now? Who the fluff are you? I rampaged through my mind for a memory. Obviously, it showed.
Interlude: You know those moments that you end up getting lost inside your mind trying to figure something out, trying hard to look as though you already know the answer and you don’t want to seem out of sorts? I wonder if I have a tell face. Like a really bad poker player, that everyone can read. Do I screw my nose up, squint my eyes, purse my lips, or all three? Do I look like some sort of nutter from the asylum doing an impersonation of Lee Evans?
Obviously, something told this guy (must ask him his name next time) that I didn’t have a clue who he was. He explained that he had been the one that had taken the photo of me and John, the young man that I pummel on a Thursday morning.
“Oh that’s right, I remember.”
“I’ve spent far too long in the steam room, I’m afraid, that’s why I look different, I must be as red as a beetroot.” He told me.
A thought occurred to me. I don’t have anything that even resembles Body Dysmorphia, but here I was standing in front of a man who had a perfectly formed body, who it seems had seen me in my bathing costume, and right at that point I could see every lump bump and squidgy bit that had been on display. You see you never expect anyone that you have met in the swimming baths to have a conversation with you outside in the real world unless of course you know each other. Suddenly I was questioning my own mental attitude towards my bits, and it wasn’t a good appraisal.
“No, it wasn’t that,” I replied with a giggle, more nerves than anything. You see the Adonis’ stay in their world and keep to themselves, and us mere mortals stay over here in the real world where wobbly bits are allowed.
He began to ask questions, “how was I finding the gym?” I was tempted to say, “It hasn’t moved and I find it at the end of the same journey every time,” but I held my tongue. Then he started talking about my sparring ability and how good he thought I was, had I done much before, that I had a lot of determination, and how much fire there was. Then the conversation got a bit weird. Was I doing anything at the weekend, would he see me here again, was I going to be free for coffee sometime?
My pervert, sorry potential suiter alarm, is a bit rusty. Especially when a young man starts asking me to join him for coffee. But this time it was being kicked into life with a capital K. I was being hit on. I checked my wedding ring finger, shit, sugar and shite, I didn’t have my wedding ring on, at least not on my finger. I had to take it off as it was beginning to cause problems. (The truth is, I had been making pastry and I had left it on top of the Microwave, don’t tell Mark, he’d go spare.) Being the woman I am though, I do have a backup. I have the first wedding ring he bought me for the day, on a chain around my neck, he had bought me a real one when we could afford it, but I love the first so much I couldn’t bare not to have it with me.
I whipped it out and began to play with it, bending down to lean into the car window. All the better to hear him, and shove the ring in his face, accidently on purposely. Then I began mentioning that MY HUSBAND and I were going out this weekend, that MY HUSBAND was going to be joining me at the gym. That MY HUSBAND was a rugby player. It seemed to work.
I had been right royally chatted up, by a younger man, and a fit man, no less. Riding home on Thursday, I knew exactly how Mary Poppins must have felt floating through the sky. I felt good. Da,da, da,da, da,da, da.
I couldn’t wait to tell Mark. How would he respond, the usual way, you know, asking if I gave the man back his white stick, did I offer to clean his glasses for him, did he have a speech impediment and I misunderstood him?
Get over it Mark, I was hit on, and not with a boxing glove. I was the mumma.
I only began to bother me as I got to the gym on Saturday afternoon. I was wrong, I had to be, he was just being friendly, he wasn’t chatting me up, was he? Looking at myself, honestly, unless the guy had a fetish about wobbly grannies, I had obviously got it wrong. In a way I was disappointed, after all what woman wouldn’t be flattered. But in another way, I was relieved. I am far too old to teach young men new tricks and the truth is, I am so in Love with Mark it’s a joke.
I was lifting and throwing my kettle weight up in front of me, in the most unladylike fashion you could imagine. You know the move, legs open, weight slung between your bent knees, with your arse sticking out behind you, then throwing your arms out hoping and praying that your sweaty palms hold on the kettle and it doesn’t go flying off and hitting some poor cow in front of you doing yoga on the mats. He strode in and smiled directly at me, a slight nod of the head and I just lost all sense of timing.
The Headlines: Wigan woman jailed for smashing in the skull of unsuspecting young yoga guru with a kettle.
I wasn’t wrong, I could feel him watching me, he was there on the treadmill, right at the front. Beside him was the Blonde Goddess, all cosy. I wasn’t wrong, he wasn’t chatting me up, he was just being friendly.
Am I disappointed. No not really, it seems Mark has a touch of the green-eyed monster in him, he joined the gym Saturday, and we going today. All’s well that ends well, I might get to be with an Adonis one day if Mark gets the gym bug, and he gets his arse in gear.