I completed my final couch to 5K run on Saturday morning, and am now officially a graduate. It has thrown me a little, not knowing where to go next. Advice from the forum suggests 3 weeks of consolidation runs, and then working to improve technique, pace or increasing distance.
I have to just keep running and see what happens. I know from experience that if I try to do anything with technique, I will lose it completely. I was once persuaded against my will to go for golf lessons with a professional. It felt like every PE lesson I ever struggled through - torturous. Put your left leg here, twist your shoulder, look to the right, eye on the ball and pirouette. I just went the once.
And then there were the ballroom dancing lessons. Full of love for the glitter ball and glamour of Strictly, Mr C and I waltzed along to a local sports hall, where he had signed us up for weekly sessions. I used to go many years ago in the late 1970s with my friend Jo, whose grandparents ran a ballroom dancing school for a group of glamorous sixty somethings wearing gold and silver dancing shoes (the ladies) and shiny leather brogues and brylcreem ( the men). Jo and I were probably about 9, and we were the star turn, twirled and whirled around the bouncy oak floored dance studio accompanied by the crackly records playing on a big heavy record player. She was much better than me, as she was at most things, but we learnt how to waltz and polka and cha cha cha. And just as I still remember how to do the rubix cube, which Jo taught me at about the same age, those steps have also stayed with me. So I thought the adult dance class would be a breeze.
Mr C and I arrived at the hall at the designated time and were immediately pounced on by a very confident glamorous older lady (think Cha-Cha from Grease aged 60) who took Mr C by the arm and warmly welcomed us, and began introducing us to other members of the group. I escaped to the toilet, only to find that there was actually NO escape and as I locked the cubicle door, a couple of voices called to me 'Hello new lady, what's your name?' Once I had established they meant me, I replied and they asked me if I was on my own. This was a ridiculously friendly group, although I quickly realised that I was not the draw - the group was very short on men, and any new specimens, attached or otherwise were immediately pounced upon with relish. I rejoined Mr C who was being received as if he were Richard Gere in white uniform entering a Blackpool Bingo Hall, and the doors opened and we were greeted by the professionals, who talked us through the foxtrot. I spent most of the next half hour standing embarrassed and mortified against the wall with other lone ladies, as Mr C was passed from one experienced silver haired lady dancer to another. Every so often I would see Cha-Cha DiGregorio's hand pointing me out insistently to her short and very patient male partner and he would allow me to stamp on his feet for a single circuit of the dance floor before moving onto other less stompy and more graceful partners. To say I hated it would be an understatement.
And at the end of the session, Mr C returned to me flush faced, and full of giggly excitement, kissed my hand and said in a breathy voice, 'we'll come again next week?' I should have realised that learning to dance might not have been something we could do together in a large group - and that we would be split, and as a man in a mainly female group, he would be tossed from woman to woman like a mouse in a room of playful cats while I played wallflower. And when a couple of days later the toenail of my big toe was accidentally ripped off, it was less painful than standing against that wall waiting for the big hand to signal the end of the class. However (how can there ever be an upside of losing a toenail?), it did render me in no fit state to go dancing. Whilst I would not recommend the removal of a toenail as a means of avoiding a dance class, I was quite relieved not to have to go back.
I have learnt the hard way that when it comes to activity, I am unteachable. Co-ordination is not a strength, and if I try to concentrate on doing anything other than what my body does instinctively, I tumble pathetically to the floor, never to rise again. I may have been able to pick up some steps when I was 10, but it is apparent that the door has now closed and this dog is unable to learn new tricks. So I will continue to run like a three legged asthmatic donkey, and thank my lucky stars that it isn't a race and the only person who cares about my running technique is........ well, actually nobody cares. I have signed up to do a park run on Saturday morning with L. It will be my first time running with other people and will no doubt be as embarrassing a forum for me as the ballroom was, but I am hoping that I won't see anyone I know. And I need to practise running around other people before L and I do the Colour Run in July, as at the moment I find it very distracting even if someone is walking near me when I am running, and it throws my pace completely. Also in preparation for the Colour Run, I have bought myself a 'bum bag' - although apparently I am not allowed to call it that because it is 'so embarrassing'! I have to instead call it a 'FANNY PACK'. PLLLLLLease???? That is never going to happen. I am still looking out for a tutu and bright pink running pants, so it you see any, please let me know.
As I hoped would happen, the sunshine has helped me to overcome my fear of garden based rodents. The big black trap is now hidden from view (not quite out of sight, out of mind, but getting there), behind glorious pots filled with beautiful plants, courtesy of Mr C, and even the bleeding heart and French lavender are looking fairly healthy. So the garden as been restored, and is once again a nice place to be, as long as I have the guard dogs with me. I even have some Summer clothes to wear as H, my very tall son kindly retrieved a suitcase which was stored in the loft, full of clothes purchased over the years in Boden sales, and which were always too small for me. I had a lovely little fashion show, and am delighted to find that I am now roughly the size I always thought I was. Still 2 stone to go and then maybe I will be the size I have always wished I was. Although it is still so hard to resist cakes and biscuits.
However, I now have something to aim for as Mr C has booked for us to go to Cordoba in Spain in the Summer. I've never heard of it before, but he fell in love with it after watching Monty Don's visit in 'Paradise Gardens.' It looks gorgeous, and we are hoping to continue The Grand Tour, visiting Seville and Malaga and other places of interest whilst we are there. The planned 50th trip to Sri Lanka has been postponed and Sal and I are currently looking at other destinations which will combine a bit of adventure (not too much as I am a yellow chicken, remember) and a luxury beach idyll. Any suggestions would be appreciated.
I haven't taken any photos this week, so with thoughts of Summer to come, here are a few of Summers past. Happy times!
And as the world keeps turning, and the seasons change, the editing continues, sitting in the sunshine in my garden. I have pages of notes to remind me of changes and improvements to be made. It's relentless, and not nearly as enjoyable as writing.
I have decided to try my hand at writing short stories - just to keep the creative juices flowing during the horrible editing process. Looking at some other writers' websites, I am particularly drawn to those which feature short stories, so watch this space.
It may not happen now, or for some time, but maybe one day, and they will be fantastic! (here's hoping....)
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