Next Please!

My hair is probably too short to attempt to curl it – I had it cut into a bob a month or so ago and the absent minded stylist got a bit snip-happy with the scissors.  The result was a good four inches off my hair despite the fact I’d told her I wanted to “keep as much of the length as possible”.  Needless to say I won’t be going back to her.  Not just because of her blatant disregard for the instructions I gave her, but also because I had to sit and listen to her witter on for the best part of an hour about her ex boyfriend, who by all accounts is now in prison on some fraud related conviction.  She also seemed a little distraught when I told her how lucky we were that the penal system had managed to come out on top in the case of her criminal ex partner.  Unfortunately it seems that when she referred to him as her “ex boyfriend”, what she actually meant was, “my boyfriend...who I call my ‘ex’ so I don’t have to feel guilty about all the other men I’m sleeping with whilst he’s doing a four year stretch”.  I like my usual hair dressers.  They don’t force me to talk, which leaves me far less opportunity to put my size five’s in my gob. 

Despite the meagre length to my recently re-styled and re-coloured hair, I am nevertheless, attempting to curl it.  If you’ve never curled your own hair, then to be honest, you’ve no idea how tricky this can be when you’re dealing with long sections, never mind when you’re trying to curl small stumpy tufts that barely wrap around the barrel of the curling tongs.  I am amazed that I haven’t suffered more burned fingers than I already have.  My left ear however has taken a battering, and now resembles a half chewed dog treat.  It’s also throbbing quite a bit.  Thankfully I do have enough hair to cover my Quasimodo ear, which is lucky, given that the whole point of me curling it, is to try and look somewhere close to half decent for tonight.  That’s because tonight, I’m going...speed dating.

Now I’m not going to lie, even I feel a little like I’m scraping the barrel of desperation by participating in five minute interviews for potential mates.  It can’t exactly be classed as an organic way to meet men, but to be fair I have always wanted to give it a go.  The great thing about living in Warwickshire is that the various towns and villages in the area provide such an eclectic variety of activities for its residents to partake in.  As it’s not a huge county, you also have the added bonus of knowing that it’s always easy to find something to do within a relatively short distance.  The speed dating session I’m attending tonight is in Leamington, which is the town I worked in for over eleven years, so I know I’ll be comfortable in my surroundings.  My housemate and I signed up for the session a couple of weeks ago... people were beginning to invite us to parties as a “couple” and we’d also started finishing each other’s sentences, so really we knew something had to be done about our non-existent love lives. 

I don’t feel nervous at all, but she’s full of butterflies.  I suppose I should be thankful that I know I’m able to talk confidently to pretty much anyone.  Despite not being a fan of idle chit-chat (as my hair dresser will confirm), I am not in the least bit shy in social situations, and this stands me in good stead for tonight’s task.  As we walk into the venue however the one thing that always undermines my natural confidence, is my belief that men are driven mainly by looks when it comes to girls.  I know I’m not unattractive, but then I look at the rest of the girls in the bar and can’t help but compare myself to them.  Does my outfit come across as too relaxed?  It is a Wednesday evening after all? Am I slouching?  Please don’t sit me next to that girl as her posture is too perfect and I’ll end up looking like a hunch back!  Good God! Don’t sit me next to the waif as I’ll look like a tight head prop!  Ooh, sit me next to her, she’s a big lass..oh bugger...that’s not a she...good lord I hope that’s not the calibre of the rest of the interviewees...I mean dates tonight!

The men seem nervous as they move from one woman to the next.  I find myself doing most of the talking to ensure we’re not left with any awkward silences.  Most of the men I chat to seem nice and genuine, but nobody is setting my world on fire.  One man is clearly so put off by my appearance that he spends the whole five minutes staring over my shoulder while he talks.  Under his over-sized jumper you can see he’s an extremely skinny man, so I imagine that even looking at the voluptuous woman in front of him is making him uncomfortable.  Another man’s English is limited to telling me his name, and what he does for a living – It’s a long five minutes with him!  One man seems nice.  Not what I would go for usually, but clearly intelligent and able to make the kind of conversation you can have in five minutes entertaining.  I end up chatting to him for some time after the event, and if nothing more, I think he would be fun to hang out with as a friend.

I try to imagine how many of my dates will “tick” me as someone that they want to see again, and as I look around the room at the other girls, I don’t imagine I will be at the top of anyone’s list.  The other girls are quiet and timid.  They come across as shy and demure (even my house mate who I know is anything but shy in social situations!).  They’re able to put their adorable “date face” on and charm the men with their vulnerability.  This isn’t something I’m able to do...unless I am really into a guy.  It’s happened twice in my whole life.  Otherwise I’m my normal self...hang on...Twice in all the guys I’ve dated over the last few years.  Twice I’ve found myself in an out of body experience looking down at a girl who looks a lot like me, but clearly can’t be me because she’s lost her ability to, well... function...she’s girly and giggly and flustered...she blushes at everything and she’s clumsier than I am.  It’s disconcerting as they poor girl can’t seem to say anything intelligent!  It looks like me, but it can’t be because I am confident and articulate.  Some might even say I’m gobby.  What was it about those two dates that made me turn into that girl?  And then it hits me...

I’ve always maintained that I have a type...I’m usually attracted to big men with shaved heads...men that look a bit rough around the edges...but when I think about the two guys who bowled me over on those dates, they were nothing like this.  My type has nothing do with looks or appearance.  I like an arrogant man!  The two guys that I’ve gone giggly for had an air of authority to them, an arrogance that determined how our date was going to go, and they were definitely calling all the shots.  They made me feel girly and clumsy because I was in awe of them!

As I look at my date card, and review the men I’ve ticked as people I wouldn’t mind seeing again, can I honestly say any of them made me feel that way?  No.  These are genuine guys, lovely guys, but I’d chew them up in five minutes.  I realise that many of my “Yes” ticks, are going to be changed to “Friends” ticks, because I don’t think any of them really have the personality trait that turns me into the kind of girl they’d want to date.  I’m a modern day Elizabeth Bennet looking for a 21^st Century Mr Darcy, complete with his air of superiority and arrogance.  Clearly I just want someone who’s going to keep me in check!

Positive Mental Attitude

It’s day one on plan for me today.  Day one is always easier to start when you’re off work I think.  Not that in my job I have many temptations.  In fact since starting my new job I’ve been pretty good at being organised and making myself a relatively healthy lunch, but there’s something about starting a healthy eating plan when you’ve got no other distractions, that seems to make sense.

I woke up after a small lie in, and got myself straight into my gym gear.  Having just been set a fitness plan by my helpful (if not slightly sadistic) gym instructor, I was keen to get there and give it a go.  A light breakfast of cereal to fire up my metabolism, and off I went.

Gyms are great for giving you a bit of head space.  If you can block out the fact that everything you’re doing whilst you’re in there is causing you actual real life physical pain and discomfort, you soon begin to realise that it’s as much an escape from day to day life, as it is a work out.  I spent this morning’s session mentally packing my bag for my trip to New York this weekend, buying my currency from whichever Bureau De Change is going to give me the best exchange rate and lolloping round Times Square. 

It’s actually necessary to drift off into a bit of a dream world whilst you’re working out I feel.  I mean, if I actually focused on what it was I was doing, there’s a strong likelihood that I would panic and give up.  Don’t get me wrong, I need to be subconsciously aware of my actions so that I’m fully prepared to start putting the extra effort in every minute or so, to complete the ten reps of “Arm Blaster” push/pull manoeuvres on the cross trainer (my God I hate these), likewise it’s important for me to be aware of my surroundings to ensure I don’t get ejected off the end of the treadmill with all the grace and finesse of a half cooked omelette.  It is however essential for me to remain slightly detached from what I’m doing so that my inner sloth can’t decide to give up on my behalf.

It was during my forth set of “Arm Blasters” that my inner sloth woke up and started complaining about the amount of effort it was having to put in, just to complete the required ten reps. I could feel the burning sensation in my upper arms, and my heart rate (which for fat burning purposes is supposed to remain at around 135) had shot up to about 160.  The sloth’s voice was screaming in my ear to get off the infernal machine...that we simply couldn’t do any more of these.

Thankfully my iPod saved the day by shuffling to Paloma Faith’s New York which brought me right back to my day dream - her powerful vocals drowning out the whining sloth.  From there I found it really rather easy to day dream about living in the Big Apple – perhaps I’d have a little apartment in Manhattan?  It would be quirky and on the second floor so I had to walk a flight of stairs each day (which naturally would help with my fitness and make me a size ten overnight).  I’d have a big American bed with millions of cushions, and a walk in wardrobe where all my shoes and outfits would be stored.  The living area would be girly and kitsch and I’d have a beautiful vintage desk by a huge sash window looking out over the city (in this part of Manhattan everything is pretty low-rise, hence why I’m able to have this view from the second floor...okay?).  I’d spend my days meeting friends, going shopping or sat in Starbucks, tapping away at my laptop.  My evenings would be spent at the coolest clubs and most elegant restaurants or perched at my beautiful vintage desk writing my blog....

I couldn’t help but wonder....was I daydreaming about being Carrie Bradshaw?

Quick glance down at the clock indicating how much torture I still had to put up with – 00:01:02 remaining.  Oooh!  Goody!  I’d day dreamed through a full fifteen minute session on the treadmill!  This ladies and gentlemen is how I plan to continue to get through each session.  Plus they say, the power of a positive mental attitude is immense.  Perhaps if I imagine myself as a successful blogger/columnist/author, then one day I’ll have that Manhattan apartment.  Hell, if I’m lucky I might even bag myself a Mr Big!

Fitness Schmitness

The number that flashes up on the scales isn’t a pleasant one. 

“Traitor” I hiss under my breath.

I’m sure I detect a slight raise in the fitness instructor’s eyebrows, but the professional in him ensures the expression has disappeared almost as soon as I’ve seen it.  Eugh, I’m mortified but manage to smile sweetly and wait for him to say something cheesy like,

“Well, be glad!  That’s the last time you ever have to see that number on the scales”. 

To my surprise he doesn’t.  I think I’ve mistaken him for one of the numerous Weight Watchers leaders I’ve seen in my time.  Instead he heads straight to a weight conversion chart, points out an equally chubby number and tells me that I need to aim for that to start with, and after that we’ll reassess and give me another target which will get me a little closer to my healthy weight.  It comes to something when your fitness plan has to be broken down into stages.

Stage one: Reduce one’s self from lard arse to chunky bird.

Stage two: Further reduce one’s self from chunky bird to normal human being.

As he looks at me for confirmation that I’m happy with this two stage plan, I’m aware that I’m giving the poor guy the stink eye, and have to mentally pull myself into check.  I plaster the sweet smile back onto my face and nod my head slowly to confirm that I will accept his professional opinion. 

It’s a necessary evil to have a fitness plan composed for you when you join the gym.  Necessary because if I didn’t have one, I can pretty much guarantee that I will spend most of my time dawdling on the treadmill watching the beefcakes in the weights area pose at each other (and in many cases themselves).  I find these kind of men fascinating.  It’s like watching a nature documentary about primates.  When I watch them all I can hear is David Attenborough’s whispered tone;

The Alpha male moves forward, and shows his dominance by ceremoniously kissing his own guns.  It’s designed to show the other males his dominance, but here in their natural habitat, most of the males are vying for the position of Alpha.  A youngster, keen to make an impression on the group flexes his biceps....It’s a risky move...If the Alpha sees the display as a threat he may challenge him to a protein-shake drinking duel...The young male is lucky, the Alpha is too busy looking at himself in the mirror and parading in front of a female to notice.  He gets away with it, this time...

I begrudgingly follow Matt the fitness instructor to the bikes, as he’s told me this is the best thing to start on for my warm up session.  He tells me he wants me to do twelve minutes at around 70rpm to get me warmed up for “Fat Burning”.  He also tells me that the body stores energy in a variety of different ways, and that we (this is the “Royal We”) are keen to draw the energy that I need from my fat stores.  Usually at this point I would be affronted by the notion that I even had fat stores, but to be fair not only has he just weighed me, but the guy has eyes for crying out loud, so I can’t really object to what he’s saying.  The more he mentions my “reserves” though, the more I find it difficult to come back with a sarcastic self defence fat-girl quip.  I settle for making a mental note that if we crash landed on a desert island I would last a hell of a lot longer than he would, and in that particular scenario, my fat stores would be way more useful than his sinewy athletic frame.

Matt proceeds to take me from the bike, to the treadmill (it seems the guy now has the measure of me as he puts me on one that ensures I have my back to the beefcake chimps) and sets me a fifteen minute hill walking programme.  Annoyingly he still expects a conversation from me, which by this stage is starting to become more difficult.  Not just because I’m about as physically fit as a family sized tub of Utterly Butterly, but also because I have a stinking cold.  It’s taking all my effort not to accidentally breathe out through my nose and snot down myself, so I’m really praying he’ll stop asking me questions.  Bugger...I’m starting to get stitch.  I knew I shouldn’t have had such a big lunch.  Okay how do you get rid of stitch?  Remember - what did they tell us at school?  Erm, oh yes, lactic acid...not enough oxygen...erm...breathe!  That’s what I need to do!  Breathe in through the mouth and out through the nose...GAH!  No don’t do that! Snot central!  Sniff!  Sniff it up girl while he’s busy looking elsewhere! Oh great, well that was delightful, but I think I’ve managed to get away with it. 

He continues to drag me onto a cross trainer, and some kind of jogging machine that looks an awful lot like another cross trainer, but eventually my ordeal is over.  He’s been writing my new fitness plan down for me, and I can’t help but be delighted that he’s illustrated certain stretches on the programme card with little stick-person drawings...I think this is mainly because I like the idea of me being a stick person, rather than a blob person.  Maybe the man does have a heart after all...or he’s just rubbish at drawing...it matters not.

He hands me my card and tells me I’m ready.  At first I think this is his way of saying “we’re finished now” but I soon realise he means that I’m ready to get started on my first planned session...like...now.  I resist the urge to tell him where to shove his programme card, and instead thank him for his time before leaving very quickly so that he doesn’t have the opportunity to force me into another session.  Dentists and fitness instructors are a similar breed I think – there’s a certain amount of sadism in both of their natures.  But from the comfort of my sofa, writing this now, I suppose in both of those professions, a bit of tough love is necessary for people to face the things they don’t like, or are scared of doing.  I’m sure having him there to push me if I need it, will actually prove to be pretty useful.  Doesn’t mean I have to like it though okay?

What Do Parties, Ikea and New York Have In Common?

When a colleague asked me if I was going anywhere nice on my week off, I replied quite honestly that I "might go to New York".  Now this wasn’t a statement that was designed to raise eyebrows, nor to suggest that I was the type of girl who regularly jetted off on a whim, it’s just that might is the operative word.  It suggests that I might also, not be going, and that’s because I will be travelling on a staff travel allocation.

Having been raised in a household where both your parents work for a large airline, you get used to never having a confirmed seat.  Staff travel gives you some whopping discounts, but also means you might be travelling First Class, Cattle Class, on a crew jump seat (not comfortable for a seven hour flight trust me!) or you just might not get on the flight at all.  It’s a game of roulette, and you just have to hope that there’s room for you, because you are completely at the back of the queue, behind all of the customers who are paying full price for their seats.

As it is, at the moment the flight to New York looks pretty good, so we’ll depart on Friday to return Sunday.  Some people may ask what's the point of going all that way, just for dinner and a bit of shopping in the morning?  This begs the question...well why wouldn’t you?  If you had a friend that could get you a flight to New York, for the same price as two tanks of diesel – wouldn’t you snap their hand off?  We live in a small world, where the opportunities are endless.  I only really realised this recently. 

I used to be a planner.  I planned everything.  A holiday would be booked a year in advance, a trip to Ikea would be planned for a bank holiday weekend, where I had time to shop and then assemble my purchases (in all fairness, when it comes to flat pack furniture I still think it’s wise to plan a little time for assembly given that I actually need it to at least resemble the item I’ve bought!).  I planned for parties that I’d been invited to weeks in advance, and much to my colleague’s amusement, my plan for the week's meals would be made on a Monday when I placed the order for my online grocery shopping! 

Nowadays...well I’ve become much more relaxed. All I need is an hour’s notice for a night out, I decide what I want to eat at about 6pm and nip into Asda to pick up the required ingredients.  I make decisions to fly to New York a week before I plan to do it, and last night I decided to buy a sofa from Ikea, today I checked it’s availability on-line, and drove to pick it up.  It’s now sat fully assembled in the lounge looking very smart.

Planning is fine, but being a planner by nature can hold you back. Caution for caution’s sake is unnecessary and puts a barrier between you and the things you want to do.  I’m slowly but surely starting to learn to live by the seat of my pants, and it feels good.  I’m living for the minute, because as a single thirty year old, I’m young enough to enjoy the thrill of being selfish, and mature enough to deal with the consequences should my lack of forward planning cause things to go awry.  Unfortunately, I’m still disorganised enough to never remember where I’ve put my passport, so I do have one plan for the next few days, and that’s to turn the house upside down until I find it!