After three years of being "In a relationship" (Facebook speak), I emerge in the frightening and alien environment of the Bright Young Single Things. Several things strike me - or frighten me: a) their apparent confidence b) their aptitude at small talk and c) the variety and quality of their matching bra and pant sets, none of which I have. And yes, being single will be the object of this latest post - so boring, I know. Yet so topical.
Its not so bad, I think. My cheek muscles have been given a real work out recently - that is, of smiling like a crazed idiot at people I barely know, in various social situations. Recent party in London for instance - my face felt like it had been stretched apart by two tiny little men pulling on fish hooks embedded in my cheeks. The real advantage, however, besides deepening my future laughter lines, is that I no longer feel guilty about having a casual flirtation with someone, even if they are completely unbearable/repulsive.
Despite new advantages in the social circus of life, privately I am already well on my way to cementing my reputation as an old woman, with the mental age of a 90 year old. My friend was genuinely concerned, and forced me out into the Young Whippersnapper World last night. The amount of gin I ingested was quite a shock to the system. But I cannot help fearing that I might suddenly find myself at the point where I will end up leaving messages on the answer phone for my flat mate. Messages such as "Emmy, your good friend Sarah Buckle has just taken a piece of cake out of the rubbish bin. You will probably need this piece of information for when you check her into the crazy clinic."
I also fear I will turn into that most mysterious of all female-stereotypes: The Gym Freak. Once a week with the promise of a sauna at the end will turn into every single goddamn day, voluntarily. I usually sidle up to the crosstrainer like its a faint acquaintance I give a cursory nod to every now and then. In my single state, unable to deal with having so much time on my hands for myself for the first time in three years, the cross-trainer will become an old friend you see each day for lunch. Except this burns away the calories, painfully and with much unladylike grunting and sweating. 'Ladies glow' my arse - I'll happily admit to sweating like a mule.
Then again, my father still retains the opinion that "Sarah has a great aversion to anything that constitutes exercise; she has never felt any inclination either." Now this might've been true when I was a surly and tempestuous 14 year old with hormone surges and bad skin. Books are non-judgemental and preferable to the scathing eyes of teenage males. I also had a rapid and effortless metabolism. I could eat a block of cheese a day and see no scrap of it on upon my skinny frame in the coming weeks. Now however, the metabolism has slowed down, preparing itself for true adulthood, and child-rearing. Depressing and self-whiney as it is, my body now sees fit to give up in areas where that really is not appreciated. Cellulite is the devil's word. I rarely wear short skirts, and its all about the toning.
Be assured that I am aware I am far from what can be called 'fat'. However, I do remind all my scoffing female readers (yes, my imaginary readers) that I am still a woman, enslaved to the expectation of female beauty as much as the next person. However much I scoff at Grazia and the perfect specimens within ("Superficial drivel, tsch"), I hold onto the niggling thought: "THIGHS. THIGHS. THIGHS."
And so, this term I will doubtlessly find myself in the gym, secretly eyeing the latest twig to enter the arena. She sits primly upon her spinning bike, in her Nike tracksuit and Reebok tone trainers, hair pulled into a tight ponytail, whilst I sweat and groan over the treadmill, ready to die. A brief thought in my brain tells me to give up - cellulite is hereditary, you haven't shaved your legs for a month and a half. Its all downhill from here. Another part ignites however, and whilst eyeing her twiglets for legs, I am filled with an overwhelming urge to tie her down and force-feed her lard, washed down with a glass of Crisp n'Dry.
True, I don't think I ever really entered the 'phase' of typical self-pitying, sobbing sofa-bound female. I haven't felt the need to dress in unflattering, volumnous pyjamas and a tea-stained old dressing gown for a good few weeks - this is partly because it was already part of my daily routine anyway, my flatmate will tell you. Instead, I've developed a taste for straight gin. Perfectly healthy.
Either way, I'm quite happy on my own for a while now. It means I can make jokes about the whole thing, and write more appalling, rambling blogposts on similar subjects for my loyal three readers. As for the gym, apparently everyone is skeletal/perfection in Canada, the place I plan to go next year. I am unphased however: the aim is get down to a size 8 by 2030..no pressure.
