A gazelle

I did a very cool thing today. Cool by my standards.

I cycled to work. And then ran home from work.

Yes, you read it right. CYCLED to work, and RAN home. I’ll say it again, just in case you missed it. I cycled to work. And then ran home from work. Go fucking me. Hell yeah. I have found my perfect routine. A 13 minute cycle to work using the ever so fashionable Next Bikes (think Borris bikes in London), casual 9 hours in the office, then a 20 min run home.

Before a few weeks ago, I hadn’t been on a bike in about six years. That first time, with my super hot boyfriend in front of me in very tight shorts, I nearly fell over, crashed into a post, and narrowly avoided knocking over a small child. It was not good. I blame the shorts.

But now? Four attempts later, I am THE QUEEEN OF THE BIKE. I just glide. You know the way you glide when you have newly shaved every part of your body within an inch of your life? Glideeeeee. I glided to work. Sun in the sky, sunglasses slipping down my nose, bright red running trainers paired ever so effortlessly with my very smart office clothes, runny eyes (thanks wind), bright red freezing knuckles and a nervous twitch at every traffic light. Glided to work I did. Like a shiny smooth leg. Glided.

I had a running bag. Like a zippy, colourful, multi-pocketed (like who uses all of them anyway?) bag. A running bag. It held approximately one bra cup, a pair of leggings and a running top. But, it made me feel like a TOTAL BOSS. I felt like if someone was chasing after me, I could outrun them AND show off my fancy new bag at the same time. They would be dazzled by my running bag. BOSS GIRL.

It chaffed a bit. When I ran home. *Side note: I would like to point out that when I say I went for a run, I really mean a jog. A 10 min mile jog.* It bounced a lot and rubbed against my neck a bit. As I was running, like a glorious fucking gazelle might I add, I found myself wishing I had some vaseline for my neck. Just a wee tin, maybe the green one with Aloe. Next time, next time.

I got home and felt like the fittest person in the whole entire world. Like, I could run a marathon. I should have been at London Marathon. I should be on the Olympic running team. Seriously, you should have seen my gazelle like movement. Beautiful strides, barely out of breath (I think I wasn’t breathing, that was it), not a drop of sweat (it was highlighter I swear). I sat down to a big bowl of pasta, because you need to refuel after a tough workout (2 miles…),  and ate seven Oreos. I still haven’t moved and it’s been 3 hours. My legs hurt. My back hurts. My feet feel like I’ve walked over hot coals for years. BUT I WAS A FUCKING QUEEN TODAY.

Exercise done for the week? You betcha.

How’s your running? Do you even run bro?

Your redhead.

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A gazelle

My tits and I

I think I’m going to take up karate. Or kick boxing. Or just boxing.

Listening to a podcast on my way home today got me thinking. What if I was ever in a position of compromise, and needed to defend myself? I don’t have any special skills, unless wiggling my nostrils counts?

My nunga nungas would only hinder my efforts, ultimately disproving the ‘you could knock someone out with those’ theory. Trust me, that would hurt me more than it would them.

Maybe I need to give you a bit of context. I have big jugs. Last time I got measured, they were a GG. Yes, two Gs. But they’re not nice, perky, porn star boobs. They’re sling ’em in your waistband, breast feeding without the baby, more stretch marks than a tubigrip, boobs. They get in my way, all day, every day. Do I hate them? Nah. Mr K certainly doesn’t seem to mind them either. They do cause me a problem though. Read further for the detailed insight.

I could run away. I can run; I’m a runner. I could gather myself, put my sprinting head on, and run. But boobs. I could not run without a sports bra. They’re like tennis balls in socks, and the top of the socks are attached to my body, and they bounce, and they swing, and they thud. They hurt when they are not warned about fast movement. I sometimes contemplate wearing a sports bra during sex… seriously, it’s crossed my mind.

Bralets? Those intricate, pretty, sexy, non-wired, non-supportive, sexy, pretty, lacey things? The ones you can see the models nipples through? The ones that Agent Provocateur sell? Yes, those super hot things. They might just cover my nipple and no more. No under wire = no, no, no go.

Picture this. It’s Wedding/Engagement/Ball/Party/Special Occasion season. You are looking for a new outfit. You go to ANY shop. There’s a pretty sleeveless dress. There’s a pretty off the shoulder dress. There’s a very edgy silk jumpsuit with spaghetti straps. Can you wear a bra with any of these items? Nope. So, can I wear them? Nope. Unless I tuck my tits into my granny pants and hope nobody asks where my extra muffin top came from… Don’t even get me started on sexy pyjamas. Lucky Mr K is regularly treated to lumpy leggings and an old band t-shirt. Hey baby, come get me 😉

They attract unwanted attention. ALL THE FUCKING TIME. On the tube, on the street, in the gym, when I run, when I go to the dentist and don’t wear a polo neck, when I have to tie my shoelaces; the list is endless.

My last moan. They make me hypocritical. They make me forgot all my feminist, strong, body positive views. I have said professed all of these in the past; don’t change your body permanently, don’t have plastic surgery, don’t conform, don’t hate yourself, don’t be jealous of other girls, be happy, be brave, be confident in your skin, be proud of what you have. But me? PLEASE GIVE ME TEN THOUSAND POUNDS SO I CAN CHOP THEM OFF NOW.

Let me know if you have the dolla and I’ll send you my bank details. Cheers chum.

How do you feel about your breasticles?

Your redhead.

My tits and I