Another reason for hating 365.242199 days’ resolutions

I seem to be full of spleen and temper at the moment. In fact I’m not nearly as cross as I seem but the only things I can think of blogging about are the things that make me Ms Angry. Or Mistress Temperful, perhaps.

First day back at work yesterday, and I cracked dawn to get there in time to go swimming before hand. I arrived at about 7.45. I’d got up at 6.00 to leave the house at 7.00. That’s a big shock to a girl’s system after 17 days lolling around having grapes peeled by minions and served on a silver salver. Ish.

So there I am. It’s 07.45 am. It’s dark. It’s cold. It’s Monday. It’s raining. And there’s a queue for the car park at the pool. A queue. For the car park. And if there’s a traffic jam outside the pool, then there’ll be traffic jams inside it. I hate swimming when the lanes are full.

You see? You see why I dislike New Year’s resolutions? If you want to exercise, then do something about it when you realise that the fat in your diet is going to suffocate you, one artery at a time, instead of waiting till New Bloody Year and clogging the place up with your listless wishful thinking.

Snarl.


(I am actually in a reasonably benign mood, but hiding it astonishingly well!)

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3 responses to “Another reason for hating 365.242199 days’ resolutions

  1. must be going around, that temperful thing…spent a day like that myself this past week…must be all those happy happy vibes out there: new resolve; fresh start; etc, etc, etc

  2. Ach well, at least they will be out of your way by february. I always used to visit the gym less in january in order to let all the NY resolution dillettantes get it out of their system as quickly as possible. There are usually a few that make it through to March and one or two will still be there in May, and good on them.

  3. Oh YES! Drives me nuts too.
    But keep your chin up – only another three weeks ’till the end of January . . . and the end of most people’s resolutions.

    Actually what really gets to me about swimming is the group of ladies (they’re of a certain age – so it’s the only word for them) who swim four or five abreast VERY SLOWLY, while chatting about their grandchildren, the weather, their grandchildren, their bunions, their grandchildren, which blue rinse hair colour is ‘in’ this season, their grandchildren, that bloke their daughter’s taken up with (‘So what if he’s not a wife-beating toe-rag like her investment banker ex-husband was. You should see the length of his hair!’), and their grandchildren. Kind of like a moving roadblock.

    Sorry – just had to get that off my chest.

    Karl.

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