So you’ve kind of caught me in a bit of a stand off with the Asshole in my mind as I sit down to write today’s post, in fact it’s safe to say that he’s doing everything within his power to live up to his name. He’s feeling cocky this morning, having scored his second handbag victory in the space of a week late last night when I was chilling out by having a mooch on line. It’s a good job I’m going back to work tomorrow, I’m feeling relaxed and happy with too much time on my hands and it’s proving to be a recipe for disaster.
With one win under his belt he’s clearly got his eye on a hat trick and is coming at me hard on two fronts. Firstly food…it’s late morning and I’ve just eaten a decent brunch by anyone’s standards…skinny bacon, scrambled egg and mushrooms with two small pieces of toast. It was lovely, and it was enough. But he’s insisting that I need something sweet to ‘finish with’. And when I say sweet, I mean like chocolate sweet, or hob-nob sweet. I tried to counter-propose with a clementine but he was having none of it.
He’s got the terminology down pat – and why wouldn’t he, as someone who lives in my head he’s spent the last fifty years hearing it. The minute my Mum or my Grandma laid down their knife and fork, sure as eggs is eggs the first words out of their mouth would be what shall we have to finish with? as though eating a meal in itself wasn’t enough. So it was something accepted as the norm you know? My mum, in her eighty third year still says it now, and plays by those rules and yet she’s the size of a sparrow, how does that work?!
A big fat cookie or a piece of homemade cake always materialised after every meal, and the Asshole sees it as an opportunity to push on an open door, since no matter how much time has elapsed between then and now, to me a meal always feels incomplete without something to finish with. Most of the time I don’t think too much about it, but today I’m obsessing about it, and he isn’t helping.
He’s also trying his level best to persuade me to have a total lazy-bum pyjama day. Yesterday and the day before I did a couple of really long walks with Charlie the dog – I posted a picture on our Facebook page showing just how far, did you see it? It was a little under three miles, with some long steep hills thrown in for good measure. Now I appreciate that to anyone who’s moderately fit, that’s child’s play, but genuinely it’s not very long since I couldn’t walk a hundred yards without getting screaming back ache, swollen ankles and a red hot poker through my knee. So to me, it’s a big deal.
And boy do I know about it today, every muscle in my lower body is hollering at me. My feet ache, my calves ache and I have a blister. And I know my son would happily walk the dog today if I asked, seeing as he’s off work. So I could have a pyjama day…the conditions are right and I have no other need to go out.
I really really want to do that. I’ve got stuff on sky+ that I’ve had on series record and I want to build a huge plate of something to finish with, lay back in my big fat leather recliner and watch TV, all day, in pyjamas. I’ve spent many happy hours doing exactly that. To be fair that’s probably why I’m the size of a moose, right?
Once I’ve written this I’m going to find a plaster for my blister, stretch my calf muscles a little bit and quit moaning, Days like this really suck but I just need to pull on my big girl pants and get on with it. I might be locked horns with the asshole but over my dead body is he going to emerge the victor. No way.
Just so you know, me getting my shit together and going out with the dog is being driven by 25% wanting to build on the good stuff I’ve pulled off this week and 75% not wanting to have to ‘fess up to you guys that I’ve spent the day in my armchair surrounded by cake.
So thank you…you continue to work miracles 🙂
