So I got out of my bed right after I left my computer at 11.30 this morning. I know, how lazy am I?! I washed, then straightened my hair and proceeded to get dressed in my gym clothes. As my shoulder no longer felt like it was going to break off, I tried on my new undies from yesterday. They’re very pretty. I took a quick picture. As I heard the click on my camera, I thought for a second of Mr E and decided to send him a quick message to say good afternoon and tell him how it went with Louie last night.

He text me back and we chatted for a little while. He made a joke that the portion of the message I sent him that was in French was in fact gibberish, and he asked me if I would be seeing Louie again. I can’t help talking French sometimes. It’s so beautiful. I told him that if he was being nasty about my speaking French then I would remember such an admonishment the next time he was texting me telling me about all the naughty things he wants to do to me. I told him that I would not be seeing Louie again, proceeded to tell him that he was “a nice guy, just.. meh” I knew that didn’t make any sense. He responded telling me it made perfect sense. He said Louie was a nice guy, he just couldn’t live up to the high standards set by Mr E. 

I laughed and joked that I was glad that someone understood me. Looking to move the conversation swiftly on, I told him I’d bought new undies and asked if he thought my undies obsession was a problem. He said that he wouldn’t complain about it. I mused about the possibility of spending all the money I usually spend on undies on having a boob job. He told me to just think of all the undies I wouldn’t fit into then. Just as I was leaving the house to walk to the gym, I told him that he was right but joked that he’d forgotten to tell me that I was OK just the way I was. He very nicely told me that if he thought I would have believed him, that would have been the first thing he said.

Twas a very sweet thing to say, and it left me for a while wondering how to respond. Mr E told me once that he wished he knew how to say what women want to hear. That he wished he knew what they wanted to hear so that he could say it. Does he really think I am perfect just the way I am, or did he think that was what I wanted to hear? I know what I think and the weird thing is, I don’t think it bothers me. Day by day I see what’s happenening with Mr E for what it really is, and that’s fine. I got to the gym, showed the lady my card and hung my bag up.

Now the first thing I do when get to the actual gym is scope the place out – do a quick scan and see who’s there. Is it the weight loss crowd on the cardio equipment, or the super skinny girl and her boyfriend, or the fricking triangle men that infuriate me? It was the weight loss crowd. My usual machine all the way in the corner was in use – I HATE when that happens. I can’t concentrate if I’m running on a different treadmill. There are four treadmills. All in a line, all together. There is the one directly opposite where you hang your bag, and then obviously two more, and then over in the corner the last treadmill is ‘my’ treadmill. I love it so, because right over from the treadmills is where the Triangle men pump their eye-ron. And of course, they have to do that looking in a big ass mirror that spans the whole width of the wall. So, when you’re on the treadmills, you can also see yourself in the mirror. UNLESS you’re on my treadmill, and then the view is obscured by some other equipment.

Anyways, so I get on the treadmill next to my usual which nobody wants to use because for some reason it’s not tuned into the TV channels like the others are. Now excuse me, but I have a TV at home. If I want to watch fecking TV, I’d have stayed in with a pot noodle and a bag of crisps. (I don’t really like Pot Noodles, by the way) So I get on it and start running. Of course I can’t help but look at who is running next to me. To my left we have a rather sweaty man about 35, who I can see has only been running for five minutes. His target, according to the display on his machine if to run for 20 minutes. To my right we have an older man of about 50+  who is walking on his (my) treadmill and aims to do so for a further 2 minutes for 10 minutes in total.

I smile to myself. Taking these guys on would be just too easy. I comfortably set my new treadmill to engage me at a speed of 10km/h for 5km. After 2 km, that pain rips through my shoulder again. I breathed deeply through it, slowed my pace right down to 7km/h and just tried not to move my arm too much. Within five minutes the pain had almost gone and I was back up to running at 10k.

When I was 1km away from my target, I looked at my phone and saw I had missed a call from Mr Ex. I text him and asked if he and the children were all OK. He said they were and he’d give me a ring in about ten minutes. Now it felt like he had something to say, and I have been waiting for the conversation where he sits me down and tells me he’s been seeing someone, so I feel the need to get even more breathless and try to collect my thoughts. I crank the speed all the way up to 14km/hr.

When I hit the 5km, the treadmill slows me down and I’m relieved but also sad that my run is over. Two girls who were on the cross trainers in front of my machine smiled at me. I paused my iPod and they told me that they wish they could run like me. I smiled and said something like “aww it just takes practice”, but really I feel inadequate for such remarks. It’s not like I can run 10k every single day, or 10 miles. When I can do that, then people can compliment me on my running. Until then, they’re just complimenting me because I’m a woman who can run. If a guy ran like I did today, no-one would bat an eyelid. 

So, I leave the gym, and start my mile and a half walk back home. Mr Ex calls me as agreed and chats for a bit, telling me that he is at The Madhouse with Spongebob and they will shortly be having a barbecue. Since my family are awful for being a bit nosey and always seem to want to know everything that’s going on in my life, I wondered if maybe they had asked him why he was there without me, since they don’t yet know about the break up. I asked Mr Ex if they had asked him questions and he confirmed that yes, my Mother has been asking, and Mr Ex told her that we were no longer together.

Apparently she went on to ask him if I was OK as I hadn’t been in touch. He told her I was fine and apparently there was a conversation in which they chatted about the fact that I am not one to talk to people in times of crisis. Mr Ex asked me if it was OK that he had told my family. Told him it was fine – the sooner people know the sooner we can settle into some semblance of a real normality. I asked him if he had told my family the details, ie that he had left me and not the other way around. He told me that he told them there was no big drama, no infidelity, but that he didn’t go into details about who’s decision it was. Coward!! Aww never mind. Who cares who left who, the fact is we’re not together anymore.

Put the phone down to Mr Ex and continued with my walk home. Decided to call at the local shop to get some cash out since I am going out tomorrow. I hate that that cashpoint charges me like £1.20 to get money, but who cares. I proceeded to buy two packets of crisps, two Choc dip thingeys and two bottles of cherry coke. Had a laugh with the shop assistant about it. Saw she was reading a book, and asked her about it. She told me it was a good book, I told her I love reading and just wish I got more time to indulge it. We chatted for a few minutes and then I left her to get back into it.

As I walked out of the shop, I put my iPod back on and stuck Paramore on again. I love that song and I don’t know why. It’s just quite funky. Walked up the road drumming the beat into the air with my pink gym water bottle whilst singing along silently to the music. Got a few funny looks, and as is the motto of the day – who cares?!

I signed into my Messenger and saw Mr E was online. Told him that he display picture is creepy and that men with facial hair can not be trusted. I used Stalin, Hitler and Justin Lee Collins as examples. Justin Lee Collins may not be as bad as my other examples, and he did Bring Back The A Team, but come on – he’s from Bristol. Say no more. Mr E hasn’t replied.

Am off for a bath or shower now, haven’t decided which – with my guilty pleasure of Cherry Coke and a bath bomb or shower jelly from Lush. Hmmm..