For once it’s not me.

The unbelievable has happened. Not only have I managed to avoid the ‘flu after a big weekend, but Shaun has caught it. He is at home completely miserable. He never gets sick. Well, he gets stomach bugs but he never gets colds or the ‘flu. That’s my domain.

I am very nervous about catching it from him. I can’t afford to be sick at the moment, because then I won’t be able to do my 12,000 daily steps, or go to boxing. Disaster.

Last night I got a bit frustrated though. I am aware that when I am sick, Shaun is very good at looking after me. I decided to make a conscious effort not to get frustrated with him and to be super caring. I did all my jobs as well as all his, so that he could stay on the couch. I even carried up the wood and lit the fire (which I am usually banned from doing for safety reasons).

Then I asked him if he was hungry. He said yes, so I decided to cook his favourite meal (which is bacon and mushroom pasta). I don’t like it because it is full of cream, but since he is sick I figured I’d survive. When it was done, he ate one mouthfull and said he was full. I asked him why he said he was hungry in the first place and he said he didn’t know. What the hell kind of answer is that? I was fuming but I kept it inside. I suggested that he could have it for lunch today.

To punish him I made him watch girls TV for the rest of the night. He should know better than to mess with me.

Stepping up.

The company I work for have decided that too many of the staff are lazy. The nature of the business means that the majority of the 500 people who work here have desk jobs. I guess it’s not strictly fair to say they think we are lazy, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they want to encourage us to get fitter and healthier. And I agree… you only have to look around to notice that there are a fair few out of shape people here.

So they have given us pedometers to clip to our waist bands. They measure the number of steps we take each day. It’s pretty funny. We are in teams of 4 and there is a website where we record the number of steps we have done at the end of each day. The site calculates how many kilometres that equates to and it marks it off on a map of NZ. The aim is to get your team around the country first.

If you do some sort of sport that you can’t wear the pedometer for (either because of the contact nature of it or because it isn’t jarring enough to make it click over) you can record seperate activities and the site calculates the equivalent number of steps. Pump and boxing fall into that category for me.

I was pretty surprised though. For the category that my team is in, we need to do 12,000 – 15,000 steps a day each in order to get around the country in the allotted 10 weeks. Yesterday I went to step class in the morning and did 6,000 steps. By the end of the day I had done just over 13,000. Obviously software developers don’t do a lot of walking on the job. What surprises me is that if I’m only just making it, how the hell are the majority of the people that work here?

Today should be interesting. I do pump and boxing on Wednesdays. Maybe I’m going to have to average my steps out over the week…

Passing judgement.

I have a friend who I have known for a very long time and care about very much. He has slightly dodgy morals though. As a general rule I ignore his indiscretions, but on occasion it gets pretty hard to do.

He has been seeing a girl for years now. They have a strange relationship. She lives in a house that he owns up north. He is a property developer and spends lots of time in other parts of the country. I think that is the reason that their relationship works. Whenever they spend prolonged periods of time together, they fight so much that they almost hate each other.

He thinks it’s all her fault. He gives her everything she could possibly want (in his opinion). What he doesn’t give her is emotional stability. As a result, her behaviour is needy and at times, just plain bitchy.

As things have gotten worse for them, he has started coming to Auckland on the weekends to escape. When he is here, he sees other women. For the most part I turn a blind eye – it’s not really my business, but lately he has been complaining about the fact that I should try and be a better friend to his long term partner. How on earth can I be a good friend to her if I have to look her in the eye and lie to her?

In the weekend we went to a party and he texted me to say that he was bringing his ‘other’ girlfriend. I wasn’t very happy about it. I had already decided that she was a slapper and that I didn’t want a bar of her. Poor girl. I knew that the root of the problem lay with him, but I had a hard time accepting a girl that knew she was the other woman. It is just disrespectful.

But a funny thing happened. I really liked her. We got to talking about the situation and she told me that until he does something about breaking up with his partner, they are just friends. I didn’t believe her for a while, but it would seem that it’s true.

Last night I got another text from him. He is selling the house and ending his relationship. Maybe this new girl (who certainly seems to have her head screwed on) will do something about his emotional unavailability.

I guess I have to be more careful about judging people before I get to know them.

Oops, I’ve done it again.

At the moment I seem to be living from weekend to weekend. I guess that’s a fairly good sign of being bored at work. Or maybe of not taking it easy enough when the weekend finally does come around.

We were very productive the weekend just been. We finished painting both our room and the spare room. They are blue now. It is so much better than the lemon colour that they were before.

I also managed to pick up a new client. More wedding invitations, which is great, since that’s what I like doing the best. I also have another prospective one in the near future, so things are hotting up.

Then on Saturday night we went to a party. We made a sort of pact with the people that we went there with that it would be a quiet one. We’d go for a couple of hours and then sneak off. Well… things didn’t quite pan out that way. We stayed for many, many hours and only actually left when the party got shut down by the management of the hotel that it was being held at. I was just getting into the swing of things, so we went into town. Fatal move. I got almost 24 hours after going out. I really need to work on some sort of putting-the-brakes-on- the-party mechanism. I don’t seem to have one built in.

So today is proving to be a little slow. Because I have this stupid do-or-die attitude towards exercise, and because I don’t believe you should miss things on account of bad behaviour in the weekend, I got up at 5:30am and went to boxing. Boy oh boy did I suffer. The bruising in my knuckles took a beating as I didn’t have the energy to focus properly on my technique. Now it’s just gone morning tea time and I’m more than ready for bed!

The sun is shining outside and more than anything I’d love to be sleeping on my new lounger on the deck. That, however is not an option, so…

…Redbull here I come.

As long as it stays on the inside.

It was only a matter of time really. I know that. I’ve been walking a fine line for years.

I’m talking about sports injuries. I’ve been really lucky, and it’s not wholly deserved. It’s not like I’m sensible about it.

I get obsessed with things and I play hard. In the past 15 years, the only injury I’ve ever sustained was a sprained ankle. Admittedly it was badly sprained, for a while they thought it was broken. I did it during step class. I was jumping particularly high and thinking I was particularly cool. It wasn’t quite so cool when I missed the step. Shame! That was a year ago and it’s all good now.

For the past week, I’ve had a sore middle finger on my left hand. It’s kind of a bruised feeling and when I poke it there is something strange going on inside. I decided that the best policy was to ignore it, and did so successfully for a few days. This morning, every time I punched, it felt like razors in my finger. One of the rules of the boxing gym is that you don’t complain. Being the only girl (there are a couple of others, but none of us seem to train at the same time), I am very careful to adhere to that rule. My trainer noticed something was wrong so I had to come clean.

It turns out that I have internal bruising around my knuckle. Apparently it’s quite a common boxing injury if you are training hard or frequently. There is no cure. You just have to ice it and wait until it forms a callous inside your finger. Great. It’s starting to show on the outside, so I’ve spent the last hour with it wrapped in this gross ice that I managed to scrape out of the icebox of our IT department beer fridge with a knife.

I’m worried for two reasons. One is that there is no way in hell that I’m going to slow down on my training, so there are going to be a few painful sessions. The other is that I don’t want to get big man’s knuckles.

I might be a boxer, but at the end of the day, I’m still a girl…

What’s passing you by?

This morning I thought I was going to start off the day frustrated. I was even formulating a moaning blog post in my head. Then it all turned around – as it should. I have no excuses for moaning.

It is 7km from our house in One Tree Hill to Auckland City (where both my gym and office are). I usually do the trip between 5:30 and 6:00 in the morning, depending on what workout I am doing. At that time of day it takes around 5 minutes and I pretty much do it in my sleep. This morning I got up and decided not to go to the gym before work. I have been running the double workout lately and I think it’s starting to wear me out. Besides, I have a one on one session this evening.

So… I had breakfast at home (well, I actually ate a chicken breast I found in the fridge – I’m not exactly sure why… and no, I’m not pregnant) and left the house at 7:30. I got round the first corner and hit road works. They are widening the main arterial onto the motorway, which will be great when it’s done, but for now is a bit annoying.

I was instantly frustrated. I’m an incredibly impatient (and not always sensible) driver, and the queues were pretty bad.

After 5 minutes of sitting there trying to think of a good side-street-shortcut, I looked out the window and noticed that it is a perfect blue-sky day. I’m a real city girl. I love the architecture of motorways, and the way cranes make the skyline interesting, and the buzz of traffic noise and energy as people go to work. As I crossed the overbridge the sun was shining off the water. My favourite radio station was playing some “uplifting house” (their label, not mine). What more could a girl ask for (excpet perhaps some stonking drum and bass…)?

In that short 15 minute drive I realised that in my quest to make it to the big things, I don’t stop to enjoy the little ones enough.

You dirty, rotten… something.

Something in my fridge is alluding me. Whilst doing this alluding, it is rotting itself to death. It’s been going on for a couple of days now. At first I thought I was imagining it, but now I’m convinced.

When I open the door I can smell it. On Sunday it was really faint, but it’s getting more powerful by the day. I can’t figure out what it is. Since we have only recently got back from holiday, there isn’t much in the fridge. There is the usual collection of mayonnaise jars and sauce bottles, six eggs, two potatoes, one onion, some cheese, some cat meat, some Philly lite, 2 litres of milk, a dozen assorted beers and 4 bottles of wine. (I’m possibly giving away to much here). I clearly need to do some grocery shopping.

Yesterday I took out all those things and smelled them one by one. The cats were watching me. I felt silly. None of them appeared to smell (the things in the fridge, not the cats). I’m not sure what approach to take next. It’s not like it’s an old fridge. We bought it about a year and a half ago and I’ve been good at keeping it clean.

It reminds me of a summer holiday we went on a few years ago. Our motel unit smelt so bad that we couldn’t stay in there for any length of time without gagging. It was unbelievable and was clearly coming from the kitchen. We told the owner who made some throwaway comment about it having ‘a bit of a smell’. Finally, Mary cracked and pulled the fridge apart. There was the rotting carcass of a fish in the catch tray.

I know there is no rotting fish in our fridge at home. The closest we’ve had to a fish in our fridge is a prawn. Hmmm… maybe there’s a prawn in the catch tray.

Whatever it is, I’m not going to let it beat me…