Ultra ... Ridiculous

It's true. I'm ultra ridiculous.
Since my last post, I have followed through with the ultimate way to torture my body, and it wasn't acupuncture.
I ran a marathon.
And an ultra marathon.
People already think your a paddock short of a few cows when you tell them that you're going to compete in a marathon; 42.2km of non-stop running complete with thoughts of 'my legs are about to fall off', and 'I really, really need a poo'.
But I did it. I stowed away negative thoughts as well as the extra piece of peanut butter on toast I hadn't planned on eating that morning and ran my little heart out.
With an impressive time for a newbie of 4 hours and 11 minutes, I felt slightly invincible and opted to sign up for an ultra marathon directly after I'd crossed the finish line. Pumped with adrenaline, I didn't really consider what running 64km through bush terrain might ultimately mean. But alas, as of this weekend past, I completed the last of my running challenges for the year and have a medal and four buggered toenails to show for it.
I am sore and I am attempting not to complain to every passing person with ears, but I'm also very proud of my accomplishments. I'm 33, I can pee all by myself, cross the road without holding mum's hand, and now I can run for no other reason at all other than I've been secretly training for the zombie apocalypse.
I have absolutely no idea what the rest of the month will hold, though I suspect there's going to be some mass peanut butter consumption and a few wild nights on the chocolate to balance out all this 'healthy' clean living I've been doing of late.
Peace out.
Keep running. The zombies ARE coming.

Kristy :)

Hangin' with the Little People

William, Me and Wesley

Right. So I suspect you are about to scream 'hypocrite' at me after reading last week's post about the 'screaming question'. It still holds true that I don't want kids, but thanks to my best mate, Christina, I've been hanging out with some small people a lot lately and actually been having fun.
Let me just reiterate ... I don't want kids—not even for breakfast.
So it all started a few weeks back when I went on this million kilometre trek through the rainforest with my bestie's family. Despite my liberally applied child repellent, these two youngling’s seemed to like me and my potty mouth. Weird, right?
Anyway, I was invited back for seconds, this time to watch the two kids rock it out at the BMX track. Despite the frosty winter air, lack of healthy food options, and the grisly fact I had to use the male toilet (which, by the way, was freaking disgusting, and um, hello, I see you standing at the urinal!), I had a pretty good time.
It could also be that a sick and twisted part of me enjoyed watching some of the nasty stacks and was rooting for tears.
Moving on.

Wesley and the bestie - Christina

Amazingly, these kids still wanted thirds, this time figuring it would be a great idea to teach me how to skateboard. Now bear in mind, the last time I touched a skateboard I was in my early teens, went off the back and cracked my head on the concrete. I’m thirty-one now and clearly denser because I said ‘sure thing’.
Cutting a long story short, I bloody nailed it. I may not be cruising around half pipes, smoking weed or wearing my pants around my ankles, but I stayed on, got some momentum and even started to master cornering. It just goes to show that you’re never too old to learn new things.
And the moral of the story?
I’m totally going to do it again! I haven’t had that much innocent fun in ages.
Have a good one, everybody,

Kristy :)

Resolutions

Happy New Year one and all and thanks as always for stopping by my blog and reading my reviews, commenting on my antics and generally spreading the good word about my writing!

So, it's a new year, filled with hope and the promise of fulfilling drunkenly promised resolutions. Naturally the disappointment of failing my own obligations won't come around this year as I didn't actually resolve to do anything.
Shocking, right? Not exactly.
While most of you clinked glasses, sloshed some wine and stumbled pant-less down a public stairwell while trying to escape the drunken groping of that crazy guy from the IT department, I was fast asleep, undoubtedly snoring and thanking the mystical ghost of New Year's present that I would not be forced to spend extra time on the treadmill or take up French Cookery. I mean let's face it, resolutions require effort and I'd rather be eating the Creme Caramel and snuggling up on the sofa watching inappropriate reality television than adding to my already hectic schedule.
Why the negativity you say? Simple. I have merely come to accept that my thighs may one day have their own zip code, my hair will never co-operate while I live in the tropics and I simply cannot be nicer to children or old men wearing cowboy hats and driving twenty miles under the speed limit.

But to those of you brave enough to attempt world peace and reducing carbon emissions one fart at a time, I say good for you and good luck!
Happy New Year!

Kristy :)

A Plan of Action

I wanted to write a 'Warring with my Waistline Part 3', but alas I couldn't. For one, the battle of the bulge still continues, my thighs are still trying to take over the world, and I can't seem to keep my sticky fingers off chocolate. However, there has been some developments.

I got my ass into the gym!
Yes, I bit the bullet after watching my twin brothers chowing down on boiled chicken and broccoli, throwing in some weights and squats, and returning home from the gym looking extremely buff and a darn sight happier, despite the fact that they are now so built their arms don't touch their sides. But you know what? I wanted a piece of that action (minus boiled chicken and Arnie arms). So I took my husband and father - moral support, and made them sign up with me.
Now I thought I was getting pretty fit. I run for half an hour every day on the treadmill, whip out the sporadic lunge, and always try to watch what I eat even when I see a titanic sized piece of cake heading for my gob. I thought I could handle a personal training session basically aimed at smashing me to pieces until I'm reassembled about fifteen kilos lighter (I want to wear a sequinned bikini and see the bottom half unobstructed as I look down). I thought I could do about a gazillion squats while froggy jumping across the room, fist pump four kilogram hand weights into the air like I had a point to prove, and walk down a set of stairs afterwards without face-planting other patrons or equipment.
You know what? I damn well did it.
Yes, I may have been crying on the inside. I may have split my pants just a little bit. I may have had to grip the handrail on the staircase on descent, and I may have had to swallow back a few mouthfuls of bile, but by God I bloody did it. The crazy thing is I'm going back for more.
However, this state of 'more' may have to wait a few days since I'm practically a cripple right now, but I will go back and I will conquer. I will post a 'Warring with my Waistline Part 3' and there will be photos that don't make you want to gag.
Hell yes I'm doing this.
I may just have to buy new pants first ... and a walking stick.

Kristy :)