The diet is underway, but along with this comes the need to “be more active”. Yawn. This is the bit that really gets on my tits. For two reasons.

One, I am naturally very, very shit at anything related to, or pertaining of the engagement in sport. I’m not physically awkward or anything. I can dance. I have rhythm. Yet, try and apply myself to sport of any kind and my body betrays me. Brain and body cease to be friends and body wins, leaving brain and I embarrassed, while we are pointed at and ridiculed. And rightly so. It’s a laughable sight. Always has been. From skinny teen to wobbly, lady lump endowed adult.

Two, the inexhaustibly patronising evangelism that pours forth from the habitually active when you mention that you’re going to get your ass into gear. (And perhaps, disturbingly revealing lycra. Can anyone say, “Camel Toe”?) It’s really touching that people want you to do well, and are genuinely supportive. Yet, when it’s something that you’re naturally a bit of a fuck up at, then it can be a little bit annoying. Largely because I’m oversensitive about it and a little defensive… because I can’t help thinking it will end up in either disaster or more pointing & laughing.

You might say, “Well done you, you’ll be great”, but I hear, “Well done you for making a really fucking basic decision and understanding that your arse will become considerably smaller if you get off it. What are you? Really, what the mothering fuck are you?” It’s really a genuine case of, it’s not you, it’s me. I’m a bit of a raging fuckwit at times. I can admit that.

However, because I’m a grown up now (apparently) I need to get over myself and take the well wishing for what it is. People caring.

And, I was going to keep this to myself for a little while longer -- until such a time as I can run for the length of Pounding without expecting a lung to voluntarily eject itself from my body via my nasal passage -- but I’ve decided to give myself a deadline to get my ass into gear by.

So, along with my brilliant and amazingly encouraging best-bud, Jules, I’m going to run the Flora Women’s Mini-Marathon in June. 10 kilometres. 6 miles. 2 gobby women.

The Couch to 10k app has been downloaded. Running threads have been bought and beds have been left early to allow for pre-work sessions. Charities, for there will be one of those annoying donation pages set up, have yet to be finally decided (I’m not allowed to run for Tourette’s according to Jules, but I think that’d be ace).

Anyhoo, the game is afoot.

Now, if someone could have an ambulance on standby, come June 5th that’d be ace. Just look for the curly haired bird running like Phoebe on crack.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=6pttqFUviWs

Now, those of you who know me of old, will be more than aware of how badly P.E. & I got on at school – we were in no way the best of friends. I tended to get picked for things like the Long Jump at sports day, mainly on account of having had a growth spurt early on and being a 5ft 9ins tall 13-year old.

Most team sports and, well, really anything involving a modicum of coordination and/or speed, were just not something that I was very good at. I’d have been much happier working on some quadratic equations or making sure the books in the library were properly sorted in line with the Dewey Decimal system (I wish I was only joking about that last bit!).

The only sports I was any good at were Volleyball, again probably the tall factor kicking in and Trampolining. Not really sure why I was good at that one – I bounce well maybe?!

In addition to my lack of sporting prowess comes a sporadic form of ADD, which mainly kicks in when I go into a gym (a bit like Tourettes when I’m driving). I’m sorry, but fuck me but gyms are BOOOOOORRRING! I walk into one and instantly I can feel my mind becoming restless straight away. 15 minutes on a cross trainer has got to be the equivalent of a temporary frontal lobotomy – drop a section of your brain off at the desk when you pick up your towel maybe?

Well, we’ve established that I’m a raging geek and an impatient one at that, but the fact remains that I need to get fit. And I sure as shit, need to find a way to destress, with the maelstrom of thoughts that are racing through my head at any one time. S0, here goes.

Serious running is the order of the day and who knows, there may even come a time when I can run further than the end of the road without either a) coughing up a lung or b) pretending not to be in quite as much discomfort when cute (and much fitter) boy zooms past me?

Until then, I’m going to crack on and get some miles under my belt, all the while dreaming of a day when I can run for aaaaages with the greatest of ease and also figure out a running outfit that makes it OK for me to wear my American Apparel knee-high socks in public…

…which may or may not be my real excuse for taking up running. Don’t ask me why, but I’m a total sucker for knee-high socks!