Ages, distances, weights, heights, but most importantly.... times.
So when it comes to "Finding Thirty" I'm hopeless. If go for a run - ok well I use the term 'run' loosely - I'll run about 100m out of my driveway (or is it 10m?) and then it will be time to have a quick walk to recover from that strain, and then repeat that pattern until I can't go anymore.
I figure this journey to a sweaty, tired and bored destination of exhaustion would take me AT LEAST 30 minutes. But then when I drag my arse back inside and realise it's the same episode of Neighbours playing as when I left, I'm just plain embarassed. I can't even run around my suburb for as long as it takes Karl and Susan to make a cup of tea for Toadie and explain to him that he needs to get out of Erinsborough because the writers are running out of storylines that explain why he gets such hot love interests while he too closely resembles his namesake.
And running around the neighbourhood just isn't as glamourous as the Lorna Jane commercials make it out to be. My outfit rarely consists of anything that remotely matches or is of a sports brand at all. I don't have any windswept hills around my place where the sun shines perfectly behind me while my ponytail swings in perfect unison with my arms. There's no conveniently placed concrete steps for me to run up with a even more conveniently placed water fountain at the top. I rarely see any tanned, toned and painfully good looking guys jogging in the opposite direction shooting me a flirty glance as we cross paths suggesting a future romance.
In fact, the reality is I'm wearing some daggy shorts that once formed my highschool uniform and a baggy tshirt that was bought only because I found myself needing one last item from the '3 for $10' table at JayJays. My sneakers are from the Mart of K and bear the name of Australia's own D-list hero- Guy Leach. Running down my street is no easy feat, it's a gauntlet of avoiding reversing cars and old Italian Nonnas weeding their nature strips while they secretly curse you because you don't. My once perfect ponytail has slipped out of it's band and now the back hangs out giving me an essence of mullet and I'm almost stacking it every few steps trying to keep my dam earphones in my ears because I can't make out where the 'L' and 'R' are anymore. The only source of water on my route is from a fountain at the oval which you've always been told 'someone probably pissed in it'. Seriously - who actually pisses in a water fountain? I'm no guy, but I'm pretty sure that angle is a little uncomfortable, either way I'll be buggered if I'm drinking out of it.
Struggling home I'll be trying not to let anyone see my red and sweaty face, let alone a male of the tanned/toned/hot variety.
So as I collapse on the couch and the credits of Neighbours rolls down the screen, I curse my unfitness and swear never to leave the house again and to listen to Olivia Newton John and just get a Wii Fit.
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