Guerillas in the Mist

I've been letting off some steam.

Literally.

After more than 2 years of having gym membership I have finally figured out where 1) the sauna and steam room are, and 2) how to use them.

I'm not slow.

Truth be told, I was unable to use the gym for a good 18 months after my surgical mishap, and for the same reason I was stiff and sore after attempting a full day's work. So I decided to soldier on, and enlist the aid of the kids' boot camp to entertain my offspring while I stretch out and sweat.

I deposited my daughter with the personal trainer, parked my son in his wheelchair (his current form of transportation) and took myself off to the ladies' change room.

Finding a locker that actually locked was my first challenge, followed by trying to make the swap from warm comfy clothes to my swimwear of choice (a tankini, as the 'wet room' is unisex and we don't wanna scare anyone now do we) in the world's smallest cubicles. Seriously, would it kill 'em to remove one loo and make the others a little roomier?!

Deal done, I ventured into the steam room and pushed the button; "I can cope with 20 minutes" I tell myself and stepped inside.

Sliding onto the white tiles (again, literally) I wait for the onslaught of hot damp air, which when it kicks in, is every bit as hot and damp as promised. Within minutes I can't make out my own feet, and am finding it a little hard to breathe. But I'm loving it.

Seconds after that I have the distinctly unpleasant sensation of something dripping on my head.  I realise that the condensation on the ceiling is to blame and quietly freak out at the thought of what else may have accumulated up there before gravity brings it back to land...on me. I pop my little towel on my head to prevent any further absorption of god knows what, which also makes it hotter on top. All the better to detox with, no?

In the midst of all this perspiring and pondering I hear the sound of male voices. Can't see where they're coming from but I am hoping that they opt for the sauna instead. Even my modest tankini isn't modest enough, and despite the fact that I still can't see beyond my face in this mist I am not keen to share my space. No one looks their best in the steam room. I am now grateful that even the LEDs can't shed any light on the subject.

Another 10 minutes of this and I am desperate to a) breathe, b) see, and c) drink water that hasn't vaporised in the heat. So I carefully make my way to the door, stealthily slipping and sliding like a madwoman while blindly groping for the exit (again I'm thankful those guys wisely went with Door #2 or who knows what else I may have grasped in my haste to escape).

Outside, after a few delicious deep breaths of cool air, I make my next questionable decision, to try the Monsoon Shower: 10 powerful jets spraying water so cold it'd make an Eskimo think twice. I do my own personal version of the 'Hokey Pokey', and put my left hand in, pull my left hand out, with everything shaking all about. It's not until the spray slows to a trickle I am physically able to take the temperature. Then accidentally touch the button that starts the show all over again.

Belatedly I scan the room for security cameras, in case footage of my foolishness appears on someone's YouTube channel.

Relieved there will be no recordings I make my waterlogged way back to the Women's Room where I towel off best I can and put my street clothes back on. I make quick use of the complimentary hairdryers to blow my 'fro back into some semblance of sense (humidity and my hair do not play nicely together) and check I am not looking as frazzled as I feel before I go get the kids. Here I realise I am wearing but one earring. Must have come off when I removed my towelling head gear.  Am I talented, or what.

After a 45 minute workout my children are appropriately excited and exhausted and allow me to come home to the comfort of the couch and computer and a cuppa tea.

And quietly contemplate a better plan of attack for the next time I decide to let off steam.

Jx

©2012

Footy Fever

Our family had a rare and unusual moment last night. All four of us in the same room at the same time watching the same thing.

Almost-unheard of in our crew.

The usual practice is all of us spread out across any number of rooms and electronic devices (or heaven forbid- a book).

But last night was State of Origin.

While the big fellas of football were battling it out, state against state, mate against mate, our little team was plate against plate as we squashed onto the sofa, transfixed by pizza and the television. And a beer for my Beloved.

Working the ridiculous number of hours that he does, my Beloved has to stick with a 0.0 alcohol limit. And I seemed to have missed out on the Irish Drinking Gene so only imbibe on rare occasions, much to the disgust of some of my relatives. The kids of course are too young to indulge in the beverage of choice for sports punters the world over, but have now reached an age where they can appreciate the finer points of football (that's NRL). Or so we thought.

The Melbourne Cup may well be The Race That Stops A Nation (not sure if there's supposed to be a ® or ™ there) in Springtime, but the annual State Of Origin series captures the imagination of about 11.8 million Aussies- roughly half the total population- for three nights mid-winter. Even those who don't seriously follow the footy (like me) can get caught up in all the excitement.

It's NSW in Blue and Queensland in Maroon as they battle it out for the honour of a trophy and title of Origin champions. Sadly, the boys in Blue haven't been on the winning side for about 7 years now (leading some feisty footy fans north of the border to suggest we should sell the Trophy Cabinet. Rude.)

Sports lovers know the go: the pre-match sledging, the settling in period (read: a bit of biff between blokes), and the post-match recriminations: "We was robbed" an infamous (and grammatically incorrect) war cry. All set amidst a soundtrack of screaming supporters in their relevant colours alongside the field.

The usual position for home viewers is pizza and beverage on hand, tv remote under the control of the alpha male, and various missiles within reach when disagreeing with the ref's decision (lesson learned- only have soft options available).

For us, it was one child sitting on one parent apiece, snuggled up in our flannelette pjs (well it is winter) with my Beloved proudly wearing his NSW footy jumper

First try came barely 5 minutes in, with NSW crossing the line much to our jubilation (and relief). Not even having to stop and explain the penalty and scoring system to our offspring every few seconds dampened the mood.

Until Queensland came back with a vengeance. "Shepherd! Shepherd!" cried both my Beloved and I as the player in question dodged behind his team mate and crossed the line to ground the ball. The NSW mob just stood there like sheep and let him do it, obviously thinking it was, well, obvious. However the video referee didn't agree with us, upheld the try, and the converted goal put the opposition in front at half time.

Sadly, our little team of two also fell at the halfway mark, and despite waiting patiently for all the commentators to commentate, and advertisers to advertise, for the entire 20 minute break, barely 10 minutes into the second half we had to send the players off - to bed.

Since it's been such a long time that my Beloved has been able to sit, drink, and enjoy a game, I was on kid-duty again, and could only participate from afar, listening to the exclamations coming from the direction of the living room as the game continued.

So you can imagine the disappointment the next morning when the kids awoke to the bad news that NSW lost the game, and this year's series, by just one point.

Imagine my Beloved's belly after all that beer and pizza, and not enough sleep.

And imagine the reaction when, after all that quality time together, our son declared that he really enjoyed watching the Soccer with us.

Better luck next year.

Jx

©2012