Two things...

I was at the gym this morning running 5km. It was either do it at the gym and sweat a lot or do it along the Cairns Esplanade and sweat a lot. I chose door number one due to air con. Anyway, I ramped up the treadie and ran faster than I ever had before – I feel this pain deeply now. But the point of my story is this – there was this woman on the next treadmill who was running fast as well. However, she was making the most interesting sounds. I swear to god it sounded like she was in the throes of the most amazing sex and on the verge of orgasm. I thought two things – 1. How bizarre. 2. I want that treadmill tomorrow.     

Girly girl...

So, I was running along the Cairns Esplanade last Friday for Boot camp. Boot camp means running, sweating, pain and swearing a lot. The last three I do really well. Anyway, our perennially perky, super fit trainer ran a bit with me and she was impressed I was light on my feet – but apparently I run strangely. Of course I do. Doing it normally would not be me.  I’m strange. Peculiar. Different. Anyway, I listened to what she said and took her advice on board because she’s the expert, I respect her words and I'm always determined to do better.

Today at the gym I made a concerted effort to run less strangely. It was hard. Very hard. It then it occurred to me, after much looking at the way I ran in the mirror and almost falling over, that was the way I was supposed to run. I run like a girl. I'm a girly, girl. I’m damn proud of it. Try and keep up with me will ya?  

Playing with yourself....

I find it really weird, at the gym, the women who stand in front of the large mirrors in the ladies locker room and watch themselves dress. What’s that about? Haven’t you done and seen it all before? Why do you have to analyze yourself as you put on your undies? It’s not like something surprising is going to happen like you find out you’ve grown a penis or something.

There was this chick this morning, who was completely mesmerized by herself. So much so that she had spread all her stuff out in front of the large mirror, leaving no room for anyone else as she adored her own reflection. I don’t have time for that crap. I came out of the shower, in bra and knickers, to find my gym bag shoved out of the way so this chick could stare at herself on all angles. I lifted my bag up and put it back where it had been and gave her a look that only a 49 year old woman with tattoos, Docs and tired after boot camp, can give. Bring it and die.

After I finished dressing, she was still slowly putting clothes on and checking out her own body. Is it a need to feel good about your body that you stare at it? Is it about looking for flaws? Is it pig ignorance that makes you take all the room up in your narcissism? Whatever it is play with yourself at home.  

The assassin...

I was at the gym doing some boxing. That means I put on my boxing gloves, smack bags around and sweat a lot. There is this man I see quite a bit. I’ll be honest. He’s not someone I’d want to come across in a dark alley as my super power of being mouthy wouldn’t save me. He walks in a restrained, if-you-look-sideways-at-me-I’ll-kill-you kind of way. He boxes with bare knuckles and kick boxes bare footed. He slams the bags so hard that I can almost hear them crying in terror. In essence, he’s a scary dude. I tend to believe he’s an assassin.

I had never heard him speak until yesterday. I was punching stuff and he walked in. He looked at me. I smiled in that please-don’t-kill-me-way-I-have-a-new-sofa-arriving-tomorrow-kind-of-way. And then he spoke. It was low and contained, as you’d expect from an assassin – and British – very, very British and quite wry. I did a double take. It was not what I expected. Oh yeah, he’s an assassin all right.

No, it’s not the bloody climb…

I was at the gym, in the ladies change room, coming out of the shower, when I heard Miley Cyrus and what sounded like a cat being strangled singing along to that song of hers about ‘it’s the climb.’ I stepped out half naked – fully naked you need beer goggles on to really appreciate me - and saw this other half naked woman with earphones on, with the volume up way too loud - I could hear Billy Ray’s daughter clearly – singing at the top of her lungs dancing around combing her hair. I dunno…free spirits – nature’s errant love children or science experiments gone wrong?

The picture? It’s of my letterbox at XH, my new home. I slapped a ‘no junk mail’ sticker on the mailbox as soon as I got out of the car. I cannot begin to tell you how much junk mail annoys me. Anyway, that’s Patrick, my car, to the left. The garden needs work, I have a bunch of fifty seven keys that could open anything from a door to the space shuttle to the liquor cabinet on the Titanic and for god sake whose idea was it to inflict vertical blinds on the world? They should be shot.

Sometimes it all comes down to boobs…

I was at the gym lifting weights – I do that after cardio – why? I don’t know…something to do with not being a weak arsed old lady years from now. Anyway, I was taught the correct way to lift weights. It’s all about pushing your breasts forward. As I was lifting this morning I thought about that and really, for a woman, it’s always comes down to boobs.

How so you ask? Well, if we’re not thrusting them forward to lift weights, we’re putting them out their to entice, confuse and mesmerize. They give comfort, they excite and while they’re a pain in the arse nuisance at times, they give us a power over men that is priceless. How so? When a man is staring at your breasts he can’t see what plans and schemes for world domination are formulating in your eyes. I like that…

Amarinda Jones
Penn Halligan
www.amarindajones.com
www.amarindajones.blogspot.com
Be daring...read an Amarinda book

Why do we have to be attractive…

I was on the cross trainer aka instrument of torture at the gym this morning, reading a mag, so I wouldn't think about how I was on a cross trainer aka instrument of torture and I saw this line from an article - 'why do we have to be attractive'. It was talking about how women drive themselves mad about being thin, beautiful, sexy etc when in reality there is nothing wrong with them at all. That stopped me in my tracks until the machine beeped and reminded me I was pausing in thought when I should be torturing myself in the daily pursuit of fitness.

So yeah - why do we have to be attractive? Why do we put ourselves through torture...ok - I don’t. The Jones women are brought up to believe smart and mouthy will get you everywhere and confuse people into not considering the outer package. So why is so much pressure put on women to have no cellulite, firm skin, perky boobs, pouty lips, lose weight, increase muscle or whatever? Why can’t we just say "fuck off, I am who I am and if I'm not considered attractive by you then move yourself along because you’re too blind to see how fabulous I am and I am wasting my time on you, sunshine." See? I think that would work real well.

Amarinda Jones
Penn Halligan
www.amarindajones.com
www.amarindajones.blogspot.com
Be daring...read an Amarinda book

Psycho babble…

Woo hoo! I can actually have a shower at home. Bathroom renovations...what angst ridden drama that is. Floors have to be poured and set, tiles stuck and set...it's all about waiting for things to dry before something else can be done so it will then be wet and you have to wait for it then to dry. Most of my bathroom is in my bedroom and I cannot begin to describe how messy the path is that the bathroom dudes have been using. Men = mess. Why do we bother with them again? Oh yes, that’s right, they lift heavy tiles.

Due to all this chaos I have not been able to shower at home so I have been hanging out at the gym and using their showers. I did contemplate using the showers at work but they’re in a dark little corner area and while very little frightens me I have the feeling Norman Bates is hanging out there waiting to relive the whole psycho deal and I’m not about to play Janet Leigh. I don’t like trouble when I'm naked.

Interestingly at the gym no one ever – and I mean ever – uses the first shower stall. Why? Stuffed if I know and the gym staff doesn’t know why either. It’s always sparkly clean - I have therefore decided that this shall be declared my shower stall. I think that’s reasonable.

So yay – I can shower. Life is good…better Friday of course…

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Be daring...read an Amarinda book

How cellulite saves…

I had a stack at the gym today. What is a ‘stack’? It’s Aussie for fall. I was with my trainer, the lovely and long suffering Hugh, and I doing this balancing thing. At the moment, for me, it’s all about strength training. I want to be kicking arse when I am 70…though I have actually only decided to live to 65. Why? Long story. Anyway...where was I? Oh yeah, so I was balancing on this thing…it’s shaped like a mushroom top. One side is hard plastic and the other is the curved surface of a rubber ball. That bit goes on the ground and you stand, albeit very bloody wobbly legged on the hard plastic. It’s like being drunk and wearing stiletto roller skates while balancing a pina colada on your nose.

Anyway there I was doing squats and lifting weights at the same time trying to balance on this wobbly bloody thing when I had my stack. I fell A over T – arse over tit - and landed in an ungraceful heap on my side, laughing hysterically. Hugh was just plain hysterical with concern as he raced over to me and dropped to the ground checking to see what I had broken. “Trouble, are you okay?” Yes, that’s what he calls me – “Trouble.” Isn’t he sweet? I call him “the man who cannot count” because when he says do 20 of something and I do 20 then he calls out that I’ve only done 5. Anyway I was fine. He wasn’t. I’ve never seen someone so worried. I said “it’s okay. I fell on my FFF.” No, nothing like the nitwit KKK. FFF is way more useful and sensible. What is it? Fat Flabby Flank.

Seriously, cellulite will save you every time and I don’t know why we fight it so much. I felt nothing as I hit the ground as cellulite cushioned my fall. I got straight up and spent the next twenty minutes assuring Hugh he was too young to have a nervous breakdown over clumsy clients. He said my problem is “you are too damn stubborn and think you can do everything.” Well duh…I can. You have to test your limits if you want anything out of life. You can’t just stay safe forever.

Cellulite – use it, embrace and fight the urge it get rid of it for it will save you when you least expect it.

www.amarindajones.com
www.amarindajones.blogspot.com
Be daring...read an Amarinda book

Find me a door…

I had to do this test today. Like anyone with any brains at all I try to avoid tests. Why? Because tests are pukeable. For example the Trade Practices test at work is beyond puekable. It’s all about ethics. I’m 45 years of age. I’m not about to learn ethics now for god sake. It’s too late for me. Bad behaviour is a way of life for me now. Thankfully, due to said badness, I have worked out how to cheat on this ethics test. No, you’re right. It’s probably not ethical but did I mention the bit about me being bad?

Anyway, the test I did today at the gym has a lovely name. Its call the skin fold test. There’s no way you can cheat on that sucker. It’s all about pulling at your flab with these pinchers and measuring the density of said flab. Lovely. This is when you find out if all that running up hill, boxing, lifting weights, jumping (I hate jumping – it’s the boob issue), lunging, squatting, losing oxygen flow, aches, pains, sweating buckets and profusely swearing at the gym has all been worth it.

So Hugh – my trainer - and I went into this little room and measured my fat. I have to say I like a man who can make a woman feel totally at ease with her body in a situation like that. I say we clone Hugh. One for every woman. He’s adorable – young – but adorable. Anyway, after picking up layers of my fat with his pinchers and some quick calculations Hugh was beyond happy. Actually I think he was happier than me if his dance of joy was anything to go by. I have lost 15% body fat. I’m happy with that. I worked for that. I deserve that.

Hugh instantly wanted to take a picture of the two of us together to put on the wall at the gym as I was his only client who had lost that much fat. I am all arse kicking muscle. Anyway, I declined the photo for now. Why? Nah, I’m not vain. I am what I am but at that point I had spent an hour sweating heavily with Hugh and my hair was plastered to my skull, my face was red and my shirt was drenched with sweat. “You’re such a girly-girl,” he said. Yeah – what of it? So I have promised Hugh we will have a photo on the board. I’m not into photos per se but I realize it’s more important to him than me as it shows other people how he can torture, I mean train people, into achieving.

So, I’m pretty kick-a-door-in damn fit. I have the steel toe capped boots at work…just got to find me a door to kick in.

www.amarindajones.com
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Be daring...read an Amarinda book

As weeks go…

TGIF it’s Friday morning in OZ as I write this before work. It’s been a weird arsed week. Nice things have happened, crap things have happened and just boring things that have required me jabbing a fork into my leg to stay awake.

All week I have been virtually asleep at my desk – I make no apologies. It’s been as boring as all get out – then suddenly – I’m thrust in charge for a couple of days. Talk about throwing you out of sync. It absolutely stuffs up my 'me' time at work - you know writing, gossiping, reading personal stuff and paying my own bills. Quite rude to do that to me. Note to self – stop looking responsible. Add to that 'T' the receptionist has gone on hols so her jobs have been split between all of us - when I say all - I mean those who can cross the road by themselves. Its scary how many people at work are about as useful as chocolate fireguards. Now that is a look I should cultivate.

I have been given the dangerous task of the mail. How is it dangerous? Ever used a franking machine? Oh hard. I hate anything that requires thought at work. I swear I am in constant danger of franking my fingers and sending them to China. For those without knowledge of said beastie, you have to punch numbers in and weigh things to ascertain the correct postage. How do I know it's correct? No bloody idea. Then you feed envelopes through the slot thingo which grabs the letters real fast and stamps them. Okay – so some stamps – maybe 87% - are upside down and on the back of the envelope and some letters are a little mangled. But they’re done. You wanted mail? You got mail. I’m blaming the post office if it’s all a tad messy.

Nice things that happened out of the blue – compliments from people I barely know about how kick arse I am looking. I even got flowers. Aww…it made me take a second look at myself in the mirror. Maybe this gym lark is working out even though it’s killing me. News is I can now lie on my back and lift 100kilos (220lbs) into the air. How is this good? Stuffed if I know. ‘Not like you can take that talent on TV and showcase it is it? And, to make things difficult, now when I stand like a hooker (genetic disposition see previous blog) my trainer is making me do squats – push ups no longer - to teach me not to do it. I had to do 150 squats last night…frigging hell…do not stand like a hooker… do not stand like a hooker…do not stand like a hooker…

Add the staggering amount of bills that have arrived in the mail, the bathroom renovation quote from hell, illegal office supplies sent through the post by Ethel and having to spray the storeroom with possum preventative without gassing myself at the same time and it’s been…well….you know, now that I think about it…chaos, pain, mayhem, dumb stuff, boredom…it’s actually been a pretty normal week for me.

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Be daring...read an Amarinda book

Plots and knots....

My vampire romance - Run the Gantlet - yes Gantlet - not gauntlet – yes - god knows, gantlet is the correct term - trust me....is out today at Ellora’s Cave. Let the pigeons loose.

The blurb…

One thousand years ago Caitriona of Gaunt cursed a future kinswoman. Eloise is the last Gaunt woman standing. Her fate? To fall in love with a vampire and run a gantlet to prove her love. But will lust be good enough?

Eloise was determined never to cross the path of a vampire—until she met the hard-bodied and delicious Arrow and fell for the hot, sexy vamp. One minute she hates him and the next she’s in his arms. And that’s not her biggest problem. They have to pass seven challenges to stay alive—if they can keep their hands off each other long enough.

Running the gantlet is just a side issue for Arrow. His biggest test is making Eloise fall in love with him. He craves the taste of her innocent body and sweet blood. Seducing her with sin and sex is the answer and he’s not about to let any challenge stand in his way.

Go sin and sex….


Not only that….

I was only just mentioning a day or so ago I didn't have a cover for Fear of Being – and then whizz bang presto - I have one now. Isn’t it excellent? Thank you Whiskey Creek Press Torrid cover goddesses. The book is out on August in both e-book and paperback.

That blurb….

Spencer Grace is living her nightmares. No longer content to haunt her dreams, an evil creature called the red man invades her world and turns it upside down. He knows things about her that no one else does. He feeds on her fears. He wants her for his own. Spencer is fighting for her life. She will not let this bastard win.

But this creature is not the only one new to her life. Two men, each with their own agenda, come to her. Both want her body and her heart. Both are prepared to share Spencer to allow her a long dreamt of desire. But in the end only one can have her. Who is stronger?

But can Spencer believe either man? Hot sex and fantasy is one thing but trust is another. It’s no coincidence that evil and love have come into her life at the same time.

Spooky…

And also…

….in an attempt to de-knot-ify – I’m sure it’s a real word somewhere - and relax I went and had a massage. I was at the gym doing my usual circuit of hauling my arse around, feeling so tense that I could break into a gazillion pieces and it hit me. I need a massage. Actually it was a big flashy sign that came on the screen in front of me at the gym. "Need to relax?" Oh-bloody-frigging-hell-damn-for-god-sake-does-a-chicken-have-lips-yes-I-bloody-do.

Now, the concept of a massage is a really odd thing for me to think of as I am very, very picky on who touches me. I'm not a tactile person per se. Touch me without advance warning and I may just snot you...no seriously. It's just the way I am - yet I adore me.

So I went and got massaged. I apparently have lots of big hard knots in my shoulders, back and my calf muscles and funnily enough – well I found it funny – I have tight arse muscles. Oh, how that made me laugh. My arse is pure flab but somehow - what do you know - muscle has snuck into my fat buns – go figure. It was pointed out to me by the fantastic masseuse that I also have a problem with relaxing and lying still on the table – correct – I suck at that - and I am scary tight all over – correct – well, if you are going to do something you may as well do it to extremes I say. Yes, I’m going back. I need to. Even without her telling me that I knew it. Am I relaxed? No, I’m actually rather stiff and sore as hell. It will take some more work but I’m worth the effort. I just hope my tight arse muscles don’t disappears…what a bummer that would be…yeah, bad pun.

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Be daring...read an Amarinda book

Oh the grind...

…I was at the gym, being tortured er, I mean trained…as far as anyone can train me or teach me stuff ‘cause I believe I know everything…by my PT Hugh. Anyway, I was running and jumping and lifting and close to dying, sweat obscuring my eyes when Hugh said “oh yuck, that’s just so unattractive.” ‘Well hey – I’m trying,’ I yelled back him. Actually, we yell at each other a lot. It’s a great deal of fun to have someone who understands your training style. “No, not you – her.” I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and looked at where he was pointing. There was a blonde, singer bimbo-ette on the television screen. Each exercise machine has its own….er, TV… not blonde bimbo-ette. I’m not big on watching music videos and ones at the gym make me believe having tweeny weeny shorts up your arse like that could be a health hazard…and that’s just the men in the videos…

Anyway, the lovely Hugh pointed out this well-known blonde American singer. She was in these tiny shorts with her arse hanging out and her boobs threatening to explode from her spangly bra all the while she was grinding away like some feral Barbie doll on heat in a boxing ring. Now I box at the gym and I’m pretty sure I never look like that. I cover my arse, figuratively and literally and sports bras are golden…and I rarely grind…only on special occasions. Anyway, I found it interesting that Hugh was turned off by this bimbo-ette. I say bimbo-ette because she was only in her twenties and to be a fully fledged bimbo I tend to believe you have to marry a man three times your age and/or be naked in a playboy spread.

I asked Hugh, twenty years younger than me, why this half naked, gyrating woman was ‘unattractive’. “There’s no mystery. What you see is what you get.” Hmmm, I countered this with “Maybe she’s just selling what she thinks people want.” Hugh didn’t agree with this. He said he wouldn’t buy it and that while a man would look at her she wasn’t the woman he ‘stayed with.’ Well, that set me back on my heels. Yes, I know all men are not shallow but it surprised by that a younger man, into health and fitness and ‘trimming and toning’ – his catchphrase along with ‘breathe’ and ‘push’ would think this way. That’s wrong of me. I don’t judge people by the way they look so why would I assume he – men would? Bad Amarinda. Life lessons abound…

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Go Ahead : Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?

Who knows why...

Who Knew– is released June 1st at Ellora’s Cave. Its part of their free reads range. It costs you nix. In this economy anything free is excellent. So if you want to read an Amarinda freebie it’s as simple of clicking on the cover and downloading the story. What’s it about? Oh, just life when you least expect it…

Who Knew - The blurb…

The last thing on Bridie Clare’s mind was sex when she banged off a furious e-mail to head office. James Harper was stunned then amused after reading her angry words. Who was this woman? But soon a heated verbal exchange becomes something more. Anger becomes lust—then desperate longing to meet and touch a lover.

Why do…

…men giggle in the shower room? No, I have not been in the men’s shower room in the gym, but often as I am showering, in the ladies locker room before work, I hear men giggle on the other side of the wall. It fascinates me. What are they giggling at? I can tell you women don’t do that. In fact I have worked out there are three types of women who inhabit a gym…

1. The half dead, red faced-oh-my-god-I-think-I’m-dying covered in sweat women who crawl into the locker room, collapse on the bench and gasp for air as they try and find energy to strip off their sticky clothes and have a shower. I’m one of these feral types. We run ourselves ragged around the gym, sweat everywhere in unfashionable clothing, try to avoid knee lifts – because damn it they’re hard to do – and puff and pant in the pursuit of…well, I’m not sure but I think it’s probably pain.
2. The impossibly beautifully people who look perfect in their Armani-Gucci-someone-or-other-tracky daks (track pants) and they never sweat, they’re good at all the exercises and they never try to avoid things like the knee lifts. They’re also the ones who watch themselves in the mirror not to assess how red in the face they are and if they are close to dying. It’s more to see how impossibly beautiful they look. They’re also the sort who glide into the locker room, strip off and have absolutely no flaws whatsoever and any woman worth her salt in the locker room trades glances with others and mouths the word ‘bitch.’
3. The androids. These are people you’re not sure what sex they are. They all look the same – broad shouldered, spiky hair cuts, muscled calves and they look like they could easily beat the crap out of you and still do knee lifts. Some of these ones fascinate me as I never sure if they are male or female and when they walk into the locker room you think ‘okay – female – who knew?’ Or wait – am I in the right locker room?

I am yet to hear a woman giggle in the locker room. What is it that men do in there that makes them giggle?

www.amarindajones.com
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Go Ahead : Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?

The things we do....

Last night, after running and boxing, I ran back and forward in the gym 80 times – I kid you not - carrying 10 kilo (22 or so pound) weights. I picked one up – ten in all. I ran. I put it down. I ran back and picked up another...over and frigging over. I’m not completely sure how I didn’t drop down dead. Why did I do it? Well that bastard, er - I mean, my trainer Hugh said it was a good thing to do. Note to self – “do not jump off cliff if Hugh tells you to.” Hugh’s one of the always up and vibrant people and no matter how many times you call him a sadistic bastard he just laughs and says ‘go harder’…

Things my Trainer - Hugh says to me...

- ‘come on breathe’ - my general response is ‘no, piss off I don’t want to. His response is ‘do you want to die and make me to look bad?’ Mine – ‘what? Can't handle the pressure of a dead client?'
- ‘how does that feel?’ - this is when I have my leg bent backward with my heel against my arse – ‘pretty much as you'd expect with you foot on your bum.’
- ‘we can do this’ – Huh? ‘Hey fella' – what’s this ‘we’ business? I'm the only one sweating here.’
- ‘what happens to Temperance after chapter three’ (Dark Souls- he bought the book - no, I didn’t force him). ‘Don’t make me do knee lifts and I may tell you.’
- ‘so what are you doing on the weekend?’ Usually said when I am at my most breathless and strained. ‘The weekend? My plan is to be comatose after this.’
- ‘out of ten how do you feel?’ Hmmm, not sure, what number is ratshit equivalent to?
- ‘I'm going to smash you today.’ Trainer speak apparently. Slack arsed 45 year old woman speak – ‘Honey I've been at work all day - there ain't nothing left to smash.’
Hugh - ‘come on you can skip more than that.’
Amarinda – ‘how many can you skip, mister?
H – ‘It's not about me.’
A – ‘Scared a 45 year old woman can kick you arse?’
H – ‘No.’
A- ‘Prove it.’
H- ‘No.’
A – ‘Chicken.’
H – ‘Fine - whatever - give me the rope.’
This is a very good tactic as I get a rest.
- ‘you really can squat low.’ I am not convinced this is a talent myself.
- ‘how fun was work today?’ Um – go back to the ratshit scale.
- ‘is that as fast as you can run?’ I never fall for that one.
- ‘pain is good.’ Me – ‘oh piss off - not on my planet.’
- ‘you can knock 30 seconds off your time’ - yes, if I had bionic legs
- ‘your shoulders are really tense and knotty’ – yes, they match my mind and I’d hate to break up the set.
- ‘what are your goals?’ - oh, the usual - world domination, the freedom not to run with 10 kilo weights….

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www.amarindajones.blogspot.com
Go Ahead : Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?

Power up...

Over the last week or so I have been noticing men, noticing me. Now, when I say this I must add that although I look at men – well duh – it never occurs to me that they are always looking at me. Why? Well, while I love me a lot, I’m pretty average to look at. I know that – I’m realistic. I’ve been with me a long time….but I still love me…did I mention that? Anyway, so it’s been strange to suddenly notice men looking at me. Actually, I am very much like the heroines I write. They’re always the last to work it out as well…forehead slap…

My obscene phone caller/text message man – see previous blog about this wonderful, sexy nuisance – believes it’s all to do with him. Uh – huh…men – up themselves or what? His theory is that because I am soooooo interested in him, I am naturally giving off some weird pheromone that is attracting men. I see. My question to him was – why do I need you then? You know – if I am suddenly attracting the male of the species – what’s the point of keeping you on? Apparently I just do need him and although I am certainly at liberty to do something with someone else I am not to do it. Hmm…aren’t men cute when they’re out of their depth?

So now, I’m thinking the man looking at my arse in the gym – I saw him in the mirror – this morning was not appalled and unable to drag his eyes away in that way people have when stunned by a train wreck – but may have been looking for other reasons. I’m thinking the gym is working for me – and no, not pheromones-induced-by-another thing but I have to tell you I give him 8 out of 10 for plausible-yet-bullshite story. Why am I telling you all this? Because sometimes the smallest things can lift your spirits when you least expect it. Take a look around…maybe a second look – and perhaps even go for a third - maybe it is you they are looking at. Use that power. Feel good about yourself.

Speaking of power - I saw this clip today at the gym - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-l6cF8IHfk - you gotta love Anastasia…that woman is empowered.

www.amarindajones.com
www.amarindajones.blogspot.com
Go Ahead : Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?

See how she runs....

Why are there so many floor to ceiling mirrors in gyms? I was running on a treadmill and I looked at myself and thought – 'holy crap – that is not poetry in motion.’ Why would you want to see yourself bouncing along like that? It’s just feral. I asked Hugh, my trainer, who I believe is secretly trying to kill me, what was the go on the mirror deal and he said “it makes you feel good and motivates you – now chase me as I run around the room and try and hit me with the boxing gloves.” Running is just pukeable – no it really is. You feel so much more of your body than you really want to - and he can run fast. If I was ever going to have a heart attack it would have been then…sadistic sod. He dodges and laughs his arse off as I try and take a swing at him. I’ll get him one day.

What I do like about the gym is the women’s only exercise room – no men are allowed in to exercise. Actually all the men in the gym are very nice and respectful so there is no really need to go in there but for the fact it overlooks where the men are lifting weights – we can see them – they can’t see us – I think you know why women ‘need’ to exercise in there.

That’s it. I’m knackered. I have four days off due to Easter – public holidays - yay! Correct. I am an atheist but to get a day off work I’ll be whatever you want.

If you are travelling this Easter - be safe. If you are relaxing – you deserve it. If you are eating Easter chocolate – calories don’t count because it’s a gift.

www.amarindajones.com
Go Ahead : Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?

‘Been paying someone….

…to yell at me…huh? Yep, I have joined a gym. Still can’t believe that phrase is coming out of my mouth. Sure, I walk for exercise and to keep by crap metabolism moving – but last week I said – “Amarinda get thee to a gym.” Yes, I am losing the weight I put on when I was sick last year but I had this weird urge to do more. And yes, I would normally resist weird, unnatural urges like this but for some reason I couldn’t…maybe because there was no chocolate in the house. Maybe I was out to prove a point. Spite is a great motivator.

So I wandered into the gym and negotiated a deal – because it’s what I do – beating down the price and hey – whizz bang presto – I’m a gym member. Now, people who really know me were not the slightest bit surprised at this latest move. I go off on wild tangents all the time. Oh? You’re writing sex Amarinda? That’s nice. You’re going to a gym? Okay. You’re plotting world domination? Will that leave you open for lunch on Sunday? You’re going to buy a pet duck? Can I borrow your ladder?

I organized a personal trainer person for at least a month as I have no idea what the machines all do and I have a very bad habit of tinkering with things when I think they could work better my way. The trainer is very perky. I said – “Listen up” – let’s call him Hugh, ‘cause he reminds me of Mr Jackman - "I cannot do perky at any time of the day let alone 6am in the morning. Let’s cut to the chase. I’m not here to piss around. I need someone to yell at me to do stuff with machines – I can’t guarantee I won’t yell back - and you – like it or not - are the man to do it.” He was a tad taken aback but he got with the program – always better to go with me than against me. So I am lifting and running, pumping and sweating, climbing and possibly swearing a bit and thinking of terrible things to do to bossy Hugh.

What do I get out of it? Not sure at the moment. I am never going to be thin. I’m not genetically inclined that way. I just want to lose some weight and tone up what’s left. Will Hugh be glad to see the back end of me when the month is over and I can sweat competently on my own? Nah – I see him giggling when I’m hanging upside, turning red and swearing… I’m entertainment for him.

www.amarindajones.com
Go Ahead : Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?