Disproportionate!

Ive mentioned this before, this phenomenon I have noticed about my body in its present incarnation. (By ‘incarnation’ I mean: ten kilo’s heavier, and by ‘present’ I mean: for the last two years.) I have been aware of the situation for a while, but it is only when I am at Pole Class, clad in a pair of tiny shorts and a singlet and confronted by a wall-length mirror, that its true horror becomes apparent.

This is the phenomenon, of course, that I like to call Tiny Limbs, GIANT TORSO.

See, it begins at the feet. I have these very tiny feet, ankles and calves. Ridiculous looking really. My childhood nickname was ‘Chicken pie legs’ due to this very factor. My hands, wrists and arms are the same, though this has not furnished me any embarrassing nicknames, thankfully. Finally, crowning all this smallness, is my tiny, tiny head, resting, pin-like on my small neck.

But in the middle of all this smallness there is something wrong. Something large and gelatinous, something odd and disproportionate. It is my gigantic torso, looking huge and out of place when compared with the bizzare smallness of my radiating limbs. Big belly, big thighs, BIG TITS! (I’m not complaining too much about this last one…)

All this pole fitness will hopefully put an end to this strange phenomenon (“upper-body strength, core fitness, blah blah blah.”) Until then, beware of the odd proportions peeking out of my skimpy workout gear at a pole studio near you…

It’s okay, nobody knows I’m here, nobody visits…

I tried to do something new and controversial this weekend.

Yes, thats right. I attempted to leave the house.

Crazy I know. In my self-imposed semi-exile from the net (I’m restricting myself to half an hour a day and a whole sixty minutes on weekends) I tried to have a real, human, outside kind of day.

My man and I went to pick up some concert tickets from Surry Hills, and along the way we found posters advertising a skate-board art exhibit. “Oooh, culture! Low culture at that!” We thought and vowed to find time in amongst our browsing to see it.

However, making my way along the main street, my good intentions were cast asunder by a crack in the pavement. That is to say, I went down. I went down like a bitch.

See, I have weak ankles. It’s a part of being a ‘little girl’: I’m fine boned and a touch delicate, though right now I may not look it, being a little, and hopefully temporarily, thick through the torso.

(Side note: In a recent foray into Pole Dancing which I will go into later, I discovered this phenomenon which I like to call “Tiny Limbs- Giant Torso”)

Anyhow, I once again fell prey to my fine-bonedness, and came out the other end with a sprained ankle.

While lying on the ground, shocked to tears by the sudden tumble and ghastly pain in the foot region, I was rushed upon by a large number of Surprisingly Helpful People. All but one of these were lovely samaritians, rushing to the aid of someone in need. They bought me bottles of water, cooed over my prone form and were generally sympathetic to my sprained-ankle cause.

All bar one.

This man thought that the best way to assist would be to yell at me. “Are you alright!” He bellowed, crouching next to me on the pavement. “Does this hurt?” He yelled, grabbing my ankle and moving it from side to side. At this point I all I could do was sob and murmur, “Please don’t touch that, please.”

“You cant just lie there on the sidewalk, love!” The man decided, and grabbed me under the arm. This is where the story gets weird. In hooking his arm underneath mine, he proceeded to grab my right tit and give it a firm squeeze. Perhaps he was some kind of noisy pervert, who relishes in feeling the breasts of crying girls. I’m not entirely sure of his motivations. I feebly tried to push him off, and then just let him carry me to a waiting seat at a cafe where the staff were kind enough to furnish me with a chair and some ice, as long as we bought some coffee.

I waited patiently for a lift home, mascara tracks carving their way down my cheeks, as people walked past and stared at my bare foot, swathed in bags of ice, and whispered such insightful things as, “I think that girl hurt her ankle.”

And thus ends the tale of how I tried to do something active and engaged for once, to get out into this big, crazy world and do something, and how it all ended with me lying on the couch in a darkened room, foot elevated, watching DVD’s.

Such is life.

let me tell you a story…

About last weekend.

 I’ll tell you this story now as I don’t have a lot of exciting things to say, and even though this happened seven days ago, it makes me seem that I have an active and varied social life…which is totally the opposite of the truth.

 It began after work with a rum at an Irish sports bar around the corner from my new place of employment. I was complimented on my quick learning skills and buoyed by this information. Heightened by Bacardi and self-importance, I made my way to the Cross, an apartment on the 11th floor, and champagne-vodka-’orange drink’ punch. A shower and the first topless shimmy-shake of the night followed on, with my girly cohorts and I stooping to watch ‘Spiceworld’ for the nostalgia factor.

“Come on girls, lets do our own thing!”

Juju’s Japanese restaurant was not prepared for our presence. My man, my beloved uni kids and myself descended, already rowdy. Luckily Wes knew what to order and we let him speak for us. We were too busy drinking.

Raw beef, omelettes, sashimi. Rum. Warm sake by the bottle at $15 bucks a pop. I am told I got my tits out, which does not surprise me. I have no recollection of this.

Somewhere in there was a drunken stumble to Coles, the purchase of camera batteries and cheap 3-packs of underpants for the girls who were staying over.

At ten-thirty Juju’s becomes a karaoke wonderland. ‘Hey Jude’ gets the girls going and luckily it is so loud in the restaurant that no one can hear my terrible vocals. When we get too rowdy cabs are conjured, and there is a unanimous vote for Karaoke World on Elizabeth St. They give us a room for seven til four a.m. Fools.

Divinyls. Jimmy Eat World. U2. Guns’n'Roses. I destroy them all and hog the microphone, bellowing in my sake-and-cigarettes guttural moaning.

Four rolls around in no time, and at this stage I am so wasted I cannot see. Somehow we find a cab willing to  take us and I fall into it, promptly passing out in the backseat, awakening only to throw a twenty at the driver and stumble inside.

I awaken early with the most heinous hangover in the history of all humankind.

Wallet damage- $120.

Worth every penny.

enthralling

You wish your weekend was as action-packed as mine.

No, I joke, I actually did nothing at all, and I’m not exaggerating. On Saturday I watched my lazy way through three films in the afternoon (Zodiac, Factory Girl, Blood Diamond) and today I sat on my slowly-widening ass playing internets ’til it all became too much for me and I had to take a much-needed nap on the floor.

Oh, the endless thrills.

I remember the days when I used to have a life. They were good days. Now, even a mild day of sitting and munching idly is enough to send me into a veritable coma on the lounge-room floor by three p.m.

I used to be wild. I used to be outta control. What happened?

Well, I do drink far less…

patience

I long to be patient and satisfied with that whole notion of ‘all good things come to those who…whatever.’

 I dont want things now, I want them last week, if possible.

Just call me ‘Veruca, darling…’

On a seperate note, they are attmpting to give me more responsibility at work, for the same pay, of course. Anyone who knows me knows I shrink from any kind of responsibility in a work-type environment. Perhaps I lack faith in myself, but hell, that is why I am a temp, for goodness sake.

Who knows? Perhaps I will shine? I am thinking of taking it, if only to escape those endless files and premiuim notices. And that wretched, wretched stapler, that has my name on it’s side and my blood on it’s teeth.

domesticity

Today I spurn the good weather and instead turn inwards, into the dark, cave-like structure that is my house.

 Oh yes, it’s cleaning day.

Ignore the dazzling sun and endless, unmarred blue sky. There are surfaces to be scrubbed! Carpets to be vacumed! Floors to be mopped!

I will not rest until it shines.

 I was thinking earlier of travelling to my old stomping grounds and taking a peek at the Surry Hills festival (which I prefer to refer to as the Yuppie Hills festival), but the notion of being surrounded by innumerable young professionals and trendy types made me think twice about this.

And I reasoned that I would rather clean my toilet.

Skiving

I have taken a day off work.

Thats right, I am a malingering skiver, I know.

It begin with my fateful tumble down the steps this morning, wherein I sort of hurt myself but more just lost faith in mankind, hard-work, discipline and other righteous pursuits like that.

I just couldn’t muster the entusiasm, gusto or gumption to recover from that tumble, and the thought of running about that corporate-paperguzzling-hellhole for 7.5 hours today with a kind of tender ankle a more tender constitution was intolerable.

(Basic job description- sort and staple thousands of sheets of paper, hundreds of dead trees passing through my hands daily, trees that could have had more noble deaths, could have given their lives to become books, to enrich and feed minds, instead, expiring to remind people that they need to pay their insurance premiums. I also file endless files, only to remove them again the next day and file them again the day after. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat forever.)

Instead- daytime television beckons. The promise of cleaning the house and taking a long bath thrills me. I feel bad, but good at the same time.

Damned skiver.

Rum and pork chops

Strange mix, I know.

I hate the first post.

One never knows what to say or how to begin.

I think I may say something silly, or boring, or usual.

And I wouldn’t want that.

All I want is a place to practise correct spelling, punctuation and grammar. Correct me if you will, I love it. I need it.

I’ve got so many words and I want them all to be perfect.