Lord of the dance

We were ushered into a large dark room with tiered seating at one end and a black curtain around three sides at the other end. I glanced down at the programme and discovered that the first performance we'd be watching was going to be Stomp! (people banging bin lids), my heart sank. Also featuring on the list of performances was some interpretative dance, my heart sank even further down than I thought it could.

You may wonder what on earth I was doing in such a place, given my obvious dislike of anything we'd be watching. Well, a few weeks ago my brother had left a message with Ian asking if we wanted to watch him dance. Upon further investigation I discovered that he'd refused to allow my step mum to go and so I felt duty bound to accept his invitation. He's dyspraxic which means he struggles with his co-ordination, so I had absolutely no idea what to expect from the evening but I left there feeling so proud and a little teary. I welled up as soon as he started dancing, sadly he was involved in the Stomp! performance but there were no bin lids, just some thigh and a bit of chest slapping. Seeing him, concentrating so hard, sometimes managing to get himself in time with the others made me want to weep. Not from sorrow but pride and a little sadness that our Dad wasn't there to see it. He would have been beaming, as any parent would I suppose but my brother is most certainly our Dad's son, he's outgoing, he knows everybody, you can't go anywhere with him without some saying hello, he's also a performer, as our Dad was. Dad loved to be on stage, singing or dancing - the stories I could tell... and so does my brother.

After the initial sense of dread (I mean, it was Stomp! after all) my heart was well and truly warmed. The way the dance group looked after the others, how they didn't appear to be judging any of the people with special needs they were leading, sometimes people are really lovely, aren't they? To be honest, the fact nobody told my brother to stop bloody singing (I could see him singing along) was a miracle in itself.

In which I go round and round in circles

I hate exercise, I really do. If you love it then that's fine and to be honest I'm a little bit jealous of you. If you know me in real life, or even if you follow me on Twitter those two sentences will be a little confusing because I am always on about going to the gym. I go every night, Monday to Friday, unless I have something else planned for straight after work. Every day as I approach the gym I secretly will for something to have happened to the building that would mean it was closed for the day. You see, I can't justify to myself skipping a visit there, not going is being lazy but if the decision is taken out of my hands I feel ok about it. I think I've had this routine for about 7 years now, I was super fat when I joined the gym, I was pretty lazy about it then too but I went anyway because a friend I worked with was going to and it really helped my motivation. She stopped going but I didn't, I carried on and got the exercise bug once it started working and the weight started coming off. There was something I hadn't banked on, and I know this is really really stupid, but once you've got really fat and you start to lose weight you have to change your entire lifestyle, there's no going back to being a couch potato unless you want to undo all that hard work. They don't show you that on the TV shows do they? They just show someone drop a few lbs, go on Gok Wan's programme, buy some sucky-in-knickers and that's that. Nobody tells you before you get fat that if you want to not be fat you're going to have to start exercising and you're bloody well going to have to keep it up. Don't get me wrong, I'm not totally thick, I just wish I'd realised this before. You see, my body seems to have got used to a high level of exercise and when it wanes I really notice a difference. And that is precisely what I'm fed up with, the prospect of a lifetime of having to force myself to run/cycle/cross train regularly just to keep up what I started. I wouldn't mind but I'm not even as thin as I once was but that was unsustainable. Now however, I'd like to drop a dress size but I just can't find that motivation in me any more, or maybe I don't want it enough? There's pretty much no point to this post whatsoever, it's just an outpouring from my brain, through my fingers and onto here. I'm going to stop now because I need to put some lycra on and get myself to the gym where I will complain almost non-stop about being there.

A secret

Reader, I have been harbouring a secret for a long time now, I've been learning to drive. I've not really mentioned it to anybody, not even people in real life, it's something I've been doing on the quiet, I haven't wanted to discuss it in case I failed my test. You see, I'm a defeatist at heart, if something doesn't work for me on the first attempt it's almost a given I won't even try it again. I don't ever truly believe in myself, I'm not looking for sympathy or fishing for compliments here, I'm merely stating a fact. Anyway, back to the driving. I put off taking my theory test for an absolute age, apathy got in the way. I finally took it on my birthday this year, I nearly walked out halfway through, I was so convinced I'd failed. I mean, how many know where a horse is going if it's in the left hand lane approaching a roundabout?* I almost nodded off during the hazard perception section, the videos were hypnotic and incredibly dull. I read over my answers twice, one or two that had had me stumped meant I felt as if I'd done the whole thing wrong. I left the room and awaited my results. I'd got 47/50, good job I didn't leave really. And then for the next couple of months I drove round and round with my instructor, every Saturday morning, we finished all his mock test routes, we drove through snow, rain, bright winter sun, I finally booked my test for 1st May, I was felt sick as I put my card details in, I wasn't ready, I couldn't do it, I just couldn't.

In the mean time I did lots of driving with Ian in my little go-kart of a Saxo (or Sexo as my friend and I, who also has one, have renamed our cars). I was confident in that, perhaps a little complacent at times but I just didn't think I could pass my test. 

I knew there was no reason I couldn't, there was every reason I could do it, but I couldn't let myself think I'd pass first time. I'd booked the day off work, I went for a drive with my instructor before the test, we practised manoeuvres (that really doesn't look right, spell check tells me it is), we talked through the "Show Me Tell Me" parts of the test and discussed why I probably shouldn't answer with "well that's why I married a mechanic" when asked anything complicated. I drove us to the test centre, I won't lie, I was absolutely shitting myself. I tried to tell myself it didn't matter if I failed but I knew deep down it would, I knew that if I failed I would be so very angry and disappointed. I also knew it would cost me another £100ish to retake my test and cost me another day of my annual leave. I'm hard on myself, I know this.

My legs shook the whole time I was driving, my parallel park was torturous, I forgot to indicate when turning onto a main road, I swore under my breath and dripped with sweat. We pulled into the test centre, he told me to make myself comfortable while he went through his sheet. I panicked, my heart beat too fast, I waited and waited.

"I'm pleased to tell you, you've passed" 

I nearly died, I asked him if I really had, I didn't believe I could but I had, he was really passing me. I have never been so bloody pleased in all of my life. I feel like a real independent grown up now, I have a car, I have a bit of paper that says I'm allowed to drive (my licence is on its way), I'm waiting to find out I've dreamt it.

*It's going anywhere it damn well wants to, apparently.