I don’t trust joggers. They’re always the ones who find the dead bodies. I’m no detective, just sayin.’ Anonymous
My friend Hannah visited last weekend, and I hadn’t seen her since I bought her a copy of “Run, Fat Bitch, Run” last year. She wanted the book, in fact she insisted on it. Begged, practically. But when I saw her, I wished I’d bought her a copy of “Eat, Pray, Love.” Or just the Eat part, anyway.
She’s skinny. Really skinny. Skinny enough to have to run around in the shower just to get wet.
“I’ve been jogging” she beamed. “You’d be surprised at how much fun you can have running every day.”
Indeed. I’d be even more surprised to find myself running every day. Or any day. But I must admit Hannah looked good.
“You’ve got a smoothie maker! Excellent!”
“Yes, it makes great ice-cream shakes for Scallywag. And me, too. Also makes instant breadcrumbs, I only discovered that recently – “
“You’re not still eating bread, are you?”
Er…yes. And if there’s no bread, I’ll take Marie Antoinette’s advice and eat cake. Or chocolate digestives.
“And full-fat cheese, too?” she’d stuck her head in the fridge. “Really, Anne – you’re too old for this.”
“You’re an accident waiting to happen. You won’t get away with these sort of eating habits forever, you know.”
Well that’s good, cos I’ve no intentions of living forever. In fact there are days when I wonder when will it all be over and I can requiescat in pacem, but it seemed I wasn’t going to get much rest – or peace – for the rest of the weekend.
She refused everything I offered for lunch and smoothied herself some carrots. And only drank peppermint tea. Then she suggested we go for a jog.
“Come on, Anne, you got me into this! Just try it – you might like it!”
“I did NOT get you into this, I bought you a book you wanted, I’m not taking the blame for you turning into a lunatic – “
It was futile. Easier to find my tracksuit bottoms, a huge T-shirt and my runners.
“I look like a homeless person” I whined.
“You look fine!” said she, in her tiny pink vest and snow-white shorts that were hardly even decent. “We’ll take it easy, don’t worry.”
Seems we have very different interpretations of “easy.” She was deeply shocked at how unfit I was. I was deeply impressed that I could keep going at all.
Later, in a coffee shop, after I’d ordered my Americano and she’d ordered some awful skinny-soya-decaf-distilled-water-with-grass-juice concoction, she extolled the great virtues of The Fit Life. I half-listened, gloomily, very aware that I made a great advert for The Fat Life.
“Who do you look to for some kind of inspiration?” she asked.
“Mooji” I answered.
“But Mooji’s fat!”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t give a shit.”
“Couldn’t you pick someone skinnier?”
“Well, actually, I don’t think of body-types when seeking divine inspiration. Besides, have you ever seen a skinny Buddha?” I demanded.
“But Mooji’s not a Buddhist – “
“Well, who would you suggest I follow, Hannah? Mr. Motivator? Or some other intellectual giant? Like Posh Spice?”
“All I’m saying is you can feed your spirit with one person, and feed your physical needs with someone different…”
“George Clooney could meet my physical needs, but he’s spoken for” I muttered.
We went jogging again before she left and actually had a laugh. It’s definitely easier with company. I found myself promising her I’d walk fast for half an hour every day. And I have. Both days. But running is more effective, so I might just nip into Easons and have a rummage round – see if I can get my own copy of “Run, Fat Bitch, Run”. Who knows, I might take to it. And it’s better than looking for a book called “Eat, Fat Bitch, Eat”, isn’t it?