Joining the gym

I have just joined the gym.  This is not an entirely new venture in my life – prior to having children I was a regular gym bunny – but it is rather like hauling my pre-children clothes from the back of the wardrobe and expecting them to fit.  It’s been a while since I took part in any form of exercise other than my solitary runs around town, during which I have a tendency to talk out loud as I write in my head.  I suspect this will not be acceptable within the confines of the gym. 

Because of the time-lag since I last donned a sweat-band (presumably when they were last fashionable) I thought it would be wise to take advantage of the complimentary personalised exercise plan offered to members.  I wait at the desk to see Claire, a statuesque figure in an unflattering blue tracksuit, and ask to book a session.

“I know what I want to achieve, I just need some help with my programme.”  I say.  Tremendous, this is just like work – I’ve identified my overall goals and now I just have to work out how to get there.  Perhaps I could have some sort of spreadsheet. 

“Oh great!”  Claire says, enthusiastically and perhaps a little patronisingly.  “So I’m guessing that’ll be weight loss and a general tone up?”

Now, I’m no Calista Flockheart, but neither am I morbidly obese.  I feel more than a little affronted by the assumption that the sole reason I have joined the gym is to shed pounds and gain definition.  Granted, I have on more than one occasion blogged about my Pilsbury dough Mummy folds, but unless Claire is an avid reader of my blog (gosh – perhaps she is, I must find out) there is no reason for her to know about them.  The irony of my post-child body is when clothed it is entirely acceptable – even at times positively desirable (or so I’m told). 

Dressed as I am now in reinforced Lycra and hold-em-in pants, with my newly enlarged bosoms strapped into submission beneath an industrial training bra my curves are smooth and positively svelte.  Should Claire have seen me a few moments ago in the changing rooms (and I don’t think it’s that sort of leisure centre) she could have been forgiven for thinking I was wrestling a bundle of ferrets into a polythene bag, and her assessment of my weight-loss needs would have been justified. 

I fix Claire with a somewhat haughty air.  “No, actually I want to put some weight on.”  She raises a single unplucked eyebrow to meet her fringe.  “Yes”, I continue airily.  “I’m researching an article about female body building.  It’s for a feature called Bulk Up Barbie – I’ll be documenting my training programme and reporting back on my results.” 

And that is why I am now bench pressing ninety kilos, mainlining Creatine supplements and getting up at 3am to eat an egg-white omelette.  I’ll be glad when the month’s over and I can pretend to be writing an article on weight loss.  After all – that’s the reason I joined the gym in the first place. 

Having a Mummy Crush

I wish to make a confession; my name’s Emily and I have a Mummy crush.  It’s been several years since my last crush. 

Back in the 1980s, carting my gangly legs and crooked teeth off to secondary school heralded the start of a series of perfectly platonic crushes on other women.  How I envied the sixth formers their cool clothes and air of insouciance, and oh how I failed to mimic either.  At University I adored a senior lecturer for her intellect and slightly wild hair which flew behind her as she raced between lectures.  I find fewer idols in my working life but have recently developed a Mummy crush on a woman I see on the school run. 

She’s always smiling.  I mean always.  Even when I stalk… I mean even when I see her shopping with the children, she sports a beatific smile as she glides through the supermarket aisles, filling her basket with whole-grain crackers and organic humous.   I never see her dragging recalcitrant toddlers by their dislocated arms after they refuse to cross the road, or barking commands at them like a bad tempered Corporal.  She and I walk the same route to school, but she is always a hundred yards or more ahead, her children meekly carrying their book bags whilst my tribe of mutinous pygmies fling their bags at me, their parental Sherpa.     

I want to be her.  As I’m screaming blue murder at two year old G, who’s made us late because she’ll only wear orange pants and there aren’t any clean, or the lollipop lady points out I’ve still got my slippers on, I think how nice it must be to be so perfect.  I once found myself right behind my crush, shopping for cheese at the Farmer’s Market.  I sidled up to her in the hope that I’d hear her muttering obscenities between clenched teeth, but she was simply humming an aria as she packed her brie into a wicker basket. 

When I meet her on the school run I just know that she’s left a tray of freshly baked scones in the kitchen, covered with a damp tea towel, instead of the breakfast detritus I heaped in the sink five minutes earlier.  It’s clear that she lovingly irons each child’s uniform, rather than make them eat their toast in a steamy bathroom so the creases drop out.  I darkly suspect her children kiss each other goodbye in the playground, while mine belt one another round the head and leg it into pre-school.  I’ve never seen her husband but I’m quite sure he’s enviably attractive and regularly serviced by his smiling wife.  She is undoubtedly a leading light on the PTA, sings soprano in the church choir and makes quiche.  I could never aspire to such perfection.

Of course, she could just be on drugs, and what I take for the serene beam of a perfect wife and mother is in fact the vacant stare of a valium-induced haze.  Now that I could definitely achieve.

Frost

At this time each year I hibernate.  For five weeks between November and Christmas I shut out the cold and wish away the long weeks which went so quickly when they cradled a child. 

Grief overtakes me like the frost creeping over anything uncovered, its silvery chill frosting every path.   If I stay indoors, if I keep the doors and windows tightly closed and let not a chink of cold air enter, I can survive this. 

If I have to, I can swiftly open a window into those memories and suffer the blast of grief which overwhelms me until I force the door back against it.  There is enough warmth inside to chase away the sudden cloud of cold and return the glow to my heart. 

For an instant I can race outside and face it head on.  Run barefoot round the park and back again, rubbing my frozen fingers back to life when I’m back in the warmth of those who understand. 

But if I were to stay outside too long, lying down in a thin cotton dress and making angels in the snow, I would die from it.  If I were to lie against the frozen earth until my breathing slowed and the hurt subsided, no amount of love would bring me back.   

Maybe one day it will change; maybe one day I’ll place my palms flat on the icy road and take a lungful of frosty air.  And it won’t hurt. 

But for now I hibernate.  And if you seek me out and find the door closed, if you speak to me and I turn away, I’m not avoiding you.  I just can’t let the cold in yet. 

The monster in the book shop

I like book shops.  I particularly like independent book shops, who compensate for the absence of three-for-two offers by providing expert knowledge, little-known titles and interesting book signings.  We have one such shop close to my house and I like to skulk around inside at weekends, imagining my own book on display.

I had my children with me on Saturday, so my hardback fuelled reverie was interspersed with damage limitation tactics.  You wouldn't think there were so many breakables in a book shop, would you?  It's not as though it's a china shop, right?  Well trust me, it's surprising just what my children can find to destroy when I can't offer man to man marking.

Just as we were about to leave, my two year old daughter E stopped dead in her tracks and gasped.

"A monster, Mummy!"  Despite my prods, she refused to move, staring in awe at something just out of my sight behind a free standing display of local history books.  She raised a hand slowly in front of her, pointing a brave but terrified finger at this unseen being, shaking with fear.  The book shop occasionally exhibits full sized cardboard cut outs - they had one of Harry Potter in the summer - and I wondered which one had so scared little E.  I moved forward to see.

"Is it the Gruffalo, Mummy?"  E asked, with a quiver in her voice.  She stepped back and buried her head in my legs.  Standing in front of us was an enormously tall man wearing a long black coat and a balaclava.  It wasn't a good look.  Okay, so it was minus 4 outside, but are balaclavas really ever appropriate outside of a bank job?  I tried to propel E forward with my knees but she shook uncontrollably and began to scream.

"The monster will eat me!  Don't let him eat me, Mummy!"

People were starting to look at us and the only way out was past the monster.  I mean, the only way out was past the large gentleman in the practical woollen headgear.  We would just have to brazen it out.  I picked up my terrified child and nudged past the object of fear, who turned to look at us.  He smiled at E and said hello.  She stared mutely at him.

"I'm so sorry."  I told him.  "It's awfully funny really - she thinks you're um... a sort of... well, a monster."  I laughed slightly hysterically and the man smiled politely.

E looked incredulously at me.  She pointed to beyond the balaclavared man where a cardboard cutout of the Gruffalo teetered against a stack of books.

"There's the monster, Mummy!  The other one's just a man in a hat."