Keep on running. Part One.

Keep on running – Part 1.
Never one to be strongly influenced by television ads, drugs cialis sale I was somewhat taken by surprise myself when on Thursday night Gloria Huniford stepped into my livingroom (well, tv screen) and told me there just weren’t enough women registering to run the race for life this year. In that moment I decided that I was in. I’d run 5k. Why not? It seemed like a fabulous idea. One issue however is that my relationship with my trainers has never properly gotten off the ground. We had a few dalliances about three years ago when they first arrived home one evening with Superdaddy who was clearly trying hard to help me in my bid to shift baby weight from Little Princess Pink having been born the year previous. Splendid as they were, all white and leathery with turquoise blue streaks across the side, I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to do with them. I mean, they looked so snug and cosy, nestled amongst the white tissue, safely cocooned against muddy puddles, smelly feet and weeping blisters, it was almost unfair to take them out of the box and give them false hope that they would be regulars on the circuit.
Our first outing together, a simple walk on our own on a summers evening, was fine and fairly uneventful. Once I’d gotten over the fact that I felt like I was walking in moon boots (my usual walking companions being my silver toe-post flip flops) and got past the part where every time I looked down at my feet I thought I was wearing clown shoes, we found our stride nicely. That pairing was short-lived however, and fairly soon my trainers found their way to the bottom of the shoe cupboard. Superdaddy on occasion would ask where my trainers were, commenting, that he thought they were pretty cool. My retort (under my breath obviously, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth as one night he might just come home with a box of Manolo Blahnik’s or Jimmy Choo’s ) was “well you wear them then.”
Since our first coupling hadn’t been all that bad, we attempted another more up tempo get together. Zumba. I shook my toosh and wiggled my hips with all my might, and had a grand old time. I think my trainers enjoyed it too as I bounded home with a big spring in my step, flushing with happiness having felt like we’d had a wonderful night in a club rather than a sweaty hour in an exercise class. Full of the best of intentions to ‘do it again some time’ and going to bed that night with a little flutter in my heart and images of me all toned and slinky shimmying my way here and there, I awoke the next morning with THAT FEELING. Oh dear. What had I done? Had I made a total fool of myself? My head was banging, the room was spinning. I was indeed feeling like I just spent a night clubbing, my body ached, and I had a nice bout of vertigo to boot. Superdaddy told me the vertigo was completely coincidental and nothing to do with the Zumba at all, but that was it. My relationship with my trainers soured and again, they were relegated to the back of the shoe cupboard where leopard print ballet pumps and gladiator sandals mocked them from the front.
Yet, here I am, proudly declaring that our relationship is back on and we’re giving it another go. We’ve got a good 6 weeks before the big event to crystalise our relationship and get back onto an even footing. In fact, tonight, we’re having a cosy night in on the sofa eating Chinese food and drinking Morgans and ginger ale. Well, you can’t rush these things.

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