An old proverb: ‘Beware of the convenient shortcut. For if not respected it will come and bite you in the derriere. Literally’
I had an unfortunate moment last night when I was walking home with the friends. It was rather late and rather dark, and we had partaken of a drop or two of wine.
In my somewhat inebriated state, I declared that we would be taking a shortcut to shave valuable minutes off our journey. Quite what I needed those minutes for at 2am I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps I felt the need to mow the lawn or check my emails…we will never know!
Barely two steps into the pitch black alley that constituted said shortcut and I had executed a most dramatic leap to the ground. It was a beautiful, graceful fall that would have won me many awards had any judges happen to be watching. Unfortunately there were no judges, only a pair of teenagers walking by sniggering mercilessly at my misfortune.
I didn’t fare much better in the sympathy stakes with the friends either who regarded it merely as hilariously funny, rather than the Olympic Standard performance it truly was.
I ended up with a nasty cut on my knee, the same shaped hole in my jeans and a niggling feeling that it perhaps wasn’t quite as stylish as I’d first thought. In the cold, sober light of day I’m wondering whether it wasn’t just a highly embarrassing moment; one I’m quite pleased occurred in the dark as it was hard to spot how red my cheeks were when I was pulled unceremoniously to my feet by the friends.
This in itself is something I try to avoid: I am no sylph-like creature that can float upwards when hauled to an upright position. No, it’s more akin to trying to pull a stubborn tree root out of the hard ground using only your fingertips: Whoever’s doing the pulling thinks it’s going to be a piece of cake (Cake! Mmmmm!) but halfway through realises that a firmer grip is needed and perhaps a course of ten sessions at the chiropractor…..
The whole incident reminded me of the time the friends persuaded me to attend street dancing classes above a pizza shop. Now anyone who knows me will know that my dancing ability is basically nonexistent.
I rock when it comes to the YMCA or any other classic tune that has pre-approved dance routines; very able to dance my socks off in the required ironic manner. However, when it comes to the sort of dancing you find in clubs and on music videos I am dire, and definitely in need of some talent.
These classes were incredibly hot, and I was always massively hungry due to the fact that the delicious smell of cooking pizza was wafting continuously through the floor from below. Personally I think it’s quite cruel to advertise an activity as a weight loss aid as well as learning ‘funky’ routines then jamming the smell of cheesy, doughy goodness down our nostrils!
So imagine this: There I was in my track suit at the back of the class watching the friends and little 10 year olds master the strutty, boppy routine perfectly, whilst repeatedly stepping the wrong way and looking like a crazed grizzly bear swiping at salmon. All I wanted was for the ground to swallow me whole so I could end the torture of my uncoordinated efforts. Come to think of it, the ground opening up would have dropped me through to the pizza….why did the building have to be of such sturdy design, dammit?!
I think I lasted three weeks in a row, and ended my hate affair with the dance of the streets in the same graceful style as last night: I went to sit down to gasp my way through a much-needed water bottle, aimed completely off and slid down in between two hard metal chairs with an ‘ooof’! How was this possible? I ask myself! My behind is not exactly tiny, it does not normally miss targets with such disastrous and shameful results!
Everyone’s heads zipped round to witness the spectacle, and that time I had not two, but three of the annoyingly bouncy 10 year olds grab me and do the hauling. Still the pizza floor didn’t take me!!
There’s some things in life that you must not lie to yourself about:
Hugh Grant would not fall madly in love with me at first sight.
The second chocolate eclair in the box does not need eating just so you don’t hurt its feelings that you chose it’s brother because it was bigger with more chocolate.
Most importantly, if you can’t dance, don’t keep on trying. Dignity, woman, Dignity! After all, Hugh Grant might be watching……..
Love,
Fatty Blob Head
