Bashing into Walls

I am clumsy. At least, that's how I've always thought of myself. And the big, swollen green bruise on my knee from smashing into a bench last week (at precisely the spot that swells up if I run and causes all the knee trouble, conveniently enough) would seem to bear that out.

Yet, I'm not completely convinced that "clumsy" is the right term for me. More accurate, really, is that I seem to have a surprising disregard for my physical integrity in a very specific way - i.e. I don't mind smashing into a ball/player etc. I've never been one of those who really ducks out of the way when a ball comes overhead - more likely, I'll charge into it. I think that explains the random weird bruises* I get rather than sheer clumsiness, because I don't drop things, really, or exhibit that kind of malcoordination.

I have been, however, historically very... well, I suppose "stompy" is the only way I can describe it. One thing that physical therapy has given me is actually far greater body control than I previously thought I had - my therapist has remarked several times on the more precise and graceful way in which I do some of my exercises these days, rather than clumping around. I'm not sure if that has translated into generally transporting myself around more gracefully, but I think the greater muscle development and control has given me a better sense of self. When I'm doing those exercises I can't help wondering whether having studied dance as a child would have made me feel more like that. Instead, I was a sporty child who was both big for her age (I stopped growing upward, at least, more or less, at 13) who cannoned around and relied on her body for being sporty but was not ever athletic, or precise, or graceful. I still occasionally think of myself as that lumbering, large child, but physical therapy is helping to change that.

* My gp was not desperately impressed with this explanation - I'm slightly concerned she believes that TOH is knocking me about, but you can't really explain it, can you, without sounding more and more like you're making up excuses. oops.

On a Wing and a...*

So, without wanting to go into too much detail, next week is going to be a little rough. I know this in advance, which is always strange, I think - most unpleasant things are anticipated only just beforehand, unless they are exams, I tend to find, and after last year, I'd hoped that was over.

Nonetheless, it's looming. Today, a colleague offered me her prayers. I always find that offer difficult to deal with - internally it feels hypocritical to accept, because I do not believe it and I feel dishonest in accepting it; yet it would be ungracious to get into a theological debate with someone who I appreciate on a daily basis for her support, friendship and general fabulousness. So, indeed, I just said "thank you," recognizing that it's something of great value to her that she has gifted to me. Of course, not all gifts should be received with grace: if it were KKK memorabilia that meant a great deal, I'd doubtlessly rebuff it with (more than) a few stiff words. But this was something she really thought would help me, and she wants what I want: a safe and good outcome. Clearly, I'm not still comfortable with this, but I think I've made a decision that this is an internal struggle that can be left to wither away; out of all the terrible things that happen to people on a daily basis, this really is a minimal existentialist crisis.

* I will never, ever, be able to think of this phrase without We Need To Talk About Kevin. That book certainly leaves an impression.

Par for the Course

Tonight, I am getting on a plane to head to warmer climes for a brief respite from the misery of the NY "spring" that we are enduring. There are several things about this trip noteworthy only for their utter typicality at my inability to have a holiday properly:

• My head is spinning from my blocked sinuses that have somehow, magically perhaps, been unblocked until the day I go on holiday.
• We are going to a warm, sunny place with a pool. That should be enough but, instead, we are going to a music festival which will involve late nights and far too expensive drinks. So when I get back on Sunday I will be just as exhausted as I am now.
• I have packed too many books in the vain hope that I will read them all but will instead read half of one, feel guilty and it will hurt my back to lug them all around.
  

BUT: I am not taking ANY work with me. Blackberry, yes. Papers, laptop - no. Just no. In that much I will break the cycle.

The Wuss and the Hero

Today I had one of those moments that wouldn't be out of place on Oprah, yet again. It really quite irks me to be able to compare it to that, but there you go. It's my frame of reference, albeit grudgingly so on my part. I was fully prepared to spend the next few blogs talking about my time in the Cod, where I was this weekend for a wedding. Musing on the unfriendliness of the locals, moaning on my tiredness, talking about the beauty of the region and the "loss" of another friend to domesticity, forever, but the great joy in it.

So, I've mentioned those, but will not expound further just yet because, due to the listening to fivelive this morning, I found out that one of the few people I really, truly and wholeheartedly admire, for their pure courage and guts, died yesterday.

Jane Tomlinson was an extraordinarily brave woman. She was diagnosed with terminal cancer seven years ago, given six months to live, and since then somehow managed to complete ironman triathlons, marathons, cycled across the States, cycled across Europe... she was physically incredibly strong, and dedicated to showing people what you could still do despite being in intense pain and, theoretically, weakened by the horrible thing spreading through her body.

It's pathetic, but whenever I was struggling to finish my training for my first Race for Life about six years ago, which are the breast cancer 5km races that take place in the UK throughout the summer, I would think about her. My legs may be hurting, I may be unfit, but think about Jane. How could I be such a wuss when she is going through much worse? Since then I have tailed off with my running; I am suffering from severe knee knack, but the problem is, at least in part, my failure to do my knee stretches & exercises. I think that's even worse than just stopping due to pain; I could do something about this, and I'm not.

So here we go, resolution time: a 10k race this autumn, to raise money for Jane's charity, and just to seize upon how wonderful it is to have a strong body and fitness. And knee exercises. Every day. Oh yes. I think it's a fitting tribute to her memory.

PINK IS THE NEW... What, exactly?

Given the style I chose for this blog, the excerpt from today's G2 where Hadley berates pink may be a tad... hypocritical, contradictory, in denial? Nevertheless, it was FUNNY.

What age is the cut-off point for pink flip-flops for women?
Marianne Caulder, London

How about six? I cannot tell you how much this female weakness for pink accessories distresses me. "Don't fear!" they cry. "I may have money to buy my own handbags but, really, I'm just a sweet, unthreatening girl at heart, who wishes she could still play with her Apple Blossom My Little Pony!" Pink accessories are very different from the head-to-toe pink approach favoured by those female icons of our day, Paris 'n' Chantelle. That just shrieks, "Sherbet-brained, but possibly in an ironic manner! I am having my cake, yeah baby! And eating it, too! Though obviously not literally, as that would make me fat!"

No, relegating the pink to the accessories is somehow worse because now there is not even the illusion of irony; just the pretence of subtlety, coupled with a decided lack of shame. Show me a woman in a pair of pink kitten-heels and decked with a pink, beaded shawl, and I'll show you a lady with James Blunt on repeat.

I loved Apple Blossom, I must confess.