The High Price of Being A Reubens Model

I think my family forget how old, fat and unfit I am. I'm no spring chicken and built like a Reubens model (or some would say like Mrs Tiggywinkle) so whilst I'm happy to belt around the house in a cleaning frenzy, tidy out the fridge, take copious loads of washing too and from the line which is about 25 metres away, change beds, lift furniture, grovel under computer desks and walk fast to Prodigy's Smack My Bitch up on the treadmill. Even kneeling down to clean the pool cleaner (it's one of those Jet Vac catch leaves in a little net things) sees me teetering on the brink and I'm damn sure that one day I'll just fall in!

Actually, that reminds me of a day much like Sunday when my father was pootling around the pool doing much the same thing. I was about 200 metres away up at the back fence filling the horse trough. He was a big man, tall and pretty solid and I guess in his early 70's when I heard an almighty splash. Turned around and realised that he'd fallen in the pool that he didn't ever do more than dangle his legs in on a hot summers night. Of course, thinking the poor sod had had a stroke or a heart attack or something, I belted down the paddock. Man you should have seen that fat woman run! Only to find him dragging his sorry khaki clad ass out of the pool (Steve Irwin style gardening gear). He was laughing his head off . .a little embarrassed but had simply bent over to adjust the pool cleaner and toppled in! I was grateful that my CPR skills weren't needed but gave him a good slap for causing me grief! (He then pushed me in the pool to cool down - bastard!). I never really understood the joy of elderly aches and pains . . .poor thing, he hid them well!

So, I'm feeling very achey and fragile this week after the past week's exploits. And here's a hot tip, don't get on your treadmill with bare feet. They go black and you get blisters! So to add to my creaky woes, I have a nice blister on the ball of my blackened right foot.

My back is good after the bark shovelling marathon thanks to Voltarin tabs and emulgel but after hours of mulching the crap that falls of gum trees into neat little piles then shovelling it on the garden, sweating like a pig, filling in a rabbit hole that's been dug right outside my kitchen door the cheeky bastards, feeding the horses their special Rice Bubbles uber weight gaining diet (for which I have to do a 50 minute round trip to Glenorie) and picking up the shrapnel that fell off trees in a 20 minute Westerly Buster that hit like a tornado the other afternoon and lobbing them on the bonfire, I'm sore, my hands look like a labourers! I'm serious!

Now before you go all 'oh she's just making a big deal of it'. This is a woman who came home 3 days after having a total hysterectomy with no pain relief! Ready to hit the floor running but not allowed to do jack shit! This is the woman that nearly cut off her index finger with a newly sharpened knife and asked Adam for a Band Aid - QUICKLY. This is a woman who almost had a baby in a lift! So I'm no sook but man I'm sore!

Its as if my impending 52nd birthday has put up all the warning signs and is saying " right cheese, you're an overweight old fart with creaky knees, time to get serious! My knees hurt, my fingers hurt, my shoulder hurts . . I need a SPA! I need a big strong handsome man to give me a massage, Hell, the next house I buy am so getting a hot tub! I need a personal trainer to drag me away from the computer at 6am and do a few rounds with a few pounds if you know what I mean.

I need a little man . . .or a big man . . just a strong man . . . someone who will help me with the heavy stuff. Jesus, the bloody mulcher is a giant, not your little back yard chipper chopper but a massive thing that will take branches up to 4cm across but requires a helluva pull start to crank it up. The blower weighs about 10 kilos, the wheelbarrow is as big as a concreter's which means it takes a lot of stuff and is really heavy . . .*sob*

So I went back to work this week for a rest. I kid you not. Crawling under desks, chastising stupid (and I mean stick short of a bundle, tinny short of a six pack, sandwich short of a picnic stupid) receptionist, flirting with the Helldesk but still not solving my batch merge problems and dealing with a bunch of clients who either want to invest NOW because they believe the market's bottomed or pull out all their savings and hide them under the mattress . . . is nothing compared to heavy duty gardening and painting. I'm a little disappointed, I only managed three rooms but they are oh so white and gleaming.

Right, got that off my chest. I'm fasting until Saturday . . then the diet begins and the treadmill won't know what hit it! Six weeks until sugar plum comes home, 10 weeks until my little Irish Cream arrives so it's serious folks. (Oh how I'll miss my Chardy!)

Work's a doddle!