Last week my very dear best friend outed me to the entire world- well those of it that read the blog- as being out of shape. It does have to be admitted that I’m not willowy with a lung capacity equal to the engine in a small family saloon, and that in truth exercise excites me about as much as gouging my own eyes out with a rusty spoon, but I was still a bit stung. After all, round is a shape you know?
I’ve always been comfy rather than ‘sexy’ - ’cuddly’ I believe it’s termed on dating sites? Since my teenage years I have understood that I was built much more for comfort than speed, and in truth it doesn’t bother me at all. Usually.
I mean I obviously went through the normal teenage angst about not having a thigh gap (yes, younger readers this has always been a thing) or being able to see my pelvic bones when I lay down.
I didn’t know about thigh gap until last year, by which time it was all a bit too late.
But frankly these days I couldn’t give a flying fuck what people think of the way I look.
That said I was rather stung by the out of shape accusation.
After much consideration (and wine) I decided that I needed to move more and not just to the fridge.
So nothing loath (yup there it is again Bec) I decided that I would aim to up my walking and chuck in a couple of hills a week.
Now, I’m concerned that I won‘t be able to keep up and Pip will out me for the veneer of fitness I possess.
Whilst undertaking my now regular 7.30 am walk with Dude, who is these days in muddy dog heaven, I noticed that the swan on the lake behind my house has found a replacement partner after the vicious murder of her late hubby by some off the lead hound. There was outrage in the local community. Letters: strongly worded ones, were sent to the local paper and everything. And as I puffed around the lake I mused upon a couple of things.
Prematurely widowed swan
Those of you that actually know me will already realise that my mind does not think in straight logical lines, it flits , flibbertigibbet like from one seemingly unconnected subject to another...personally I feel this is a charming part of my personality other view points are available..although not endorsed.
If you were a youngster you’d have a label with lots of capital letters in it to make it sound like a ‘thing’ rather than just being a highly creative dizzy and yet intelligent thrill seeker.
Back to musing.
I was wondering if the swan missed her cruelly murdered hubby as everyone knows that swans mate for life? Is that only to a certain value of life? Do they mourn forever? Do her cygnets resent their new ‘dad’ and why the actual fuck do we as humans insist on this ridiculous anthropomorphism of animals behaviours?
I do it all the time- even with inanimate objects - I have for instance, named my fridge....
Why do I do this? I have no idea whatsoever. The fridge is called Ernie. Just so you know.
I have yet to meet Ernie. I’m sure he, is as far as fridges go, an excellent chilled environment for delicate food items.
Ernie, the fridge
We, the British are, according to cultural reference not only a nation of shopkeepers but also a nation of animal lovers....we ostentatiously shun horse, even these days partridge, goose, pheasant, rabbit , hare as an acceptable foodstuff.
Speak for yourself, I have a freezer full of venison (predominantly Bambi’s mum), pheasant, duck (not swan) and wood pigeon. Ever Patient Husband‘s hobbies all involve hitting targets of some kind. It’s very primeval.
It would appear that not only do we imbue ‘Rover’ with our own emotions and triggers but also we refuse to eat anything cute in any way. Fluffy Bunnies are a no no.
I love rabbit. The Spanish make an excellent rabbit stew. If you’re going to eat Bambi’s mum, you may as well eat Thumper.
Does anyone remember The Watership Down film? I was traumatised for donkeys years by that. It’s like a frigging Shakespearean tragedy. Everyone is misunderstood, there’s a weird one and then everyone dies. Oh and there is a god rabbit. Terrifying at 10.
I, too was traumatised by Watership Down, but got over it when I realised how delicious rabbit tastes.
Anyway, as I’m trotting along beside my idiot hound I vow that I’m going to stop being a ridiculous twat and recognise his dog behaviour for what it is- dog behaviour....and stop naming my inanimate possessions....
I doubt it.
As we puff back up the very minor incline back home Dude stops to sniff one of his weemails (I love this joke everyone else apart from Bec thinks it’s utterly lame..) then looks up at me and leans in and I look down at him and say,
I love you too Dude.’
Dammit. I failed at the first non anthropomorphing hurdle.
Next week the new wine rack cage thingy moves in to join my small very strange family. She is to be called Amphictyonis. ( Greek Goddess of wine and friendship …)
My fledgling and yet potentially glittering literary career ebbs away to nothing as I write a commentary on a photograph of a wine rack cage thingy. Deep sigh.
And Pip thinks I’m up my own arse when it comes to all things John Lewis, Waitrose and Artisan. I’d like to see her mention Amphictynois at the Aldi checkout when she’s stocking up on the wine that’s going to be placed lovingly on her wine rack cage thingy.
I’m not sure I’m doing very well with my attempt at non anthropomorfication-ing.
Understatement of the millennium. None of us can pronounce the name for your latest item of furniture, let alone understand why you felt compelled to name it. Do you need to get out more? Perhaps extending your bubble would help? Is it a peri-menopausal symptom that hasn’t been listed anywhere official yet?
You can imagine the conversation,
’Dr, I keep naming items of furniture and certain white goods and giving them whole personalities. Is this normal?’
’Yes, you’re over fifty and losing oestrogen rapidly. It’s one of the many symptoms which also include being very angry, very sad, sore feet, cramp at 3am, having the memory of a goldfish and vaginal dryness.’
Just to interject here - I have no idea about the vaginal dryness - but my sex life is non existent.... I suppose that amounts to the same thing?
Naming furniture and white goods, appears to be one of the more benign side effects of peri-menopause.
But the walking is going brilliantly!