Long. Winded. Blog

So, my lovely cousin, another one, has decided I’m unfit. As in physically, not unfit to stand for president or raise small llamas. I am, but that’s beside the point. Basically, he’s taken it upon himself to get me into shape. Thanks, bru. Thanks a lot.

Let me put this into context. I’m the odd one in the family. With a double springbok for a grandfather and a collection of parents and aunts and uncles with various colours for various provinces, my youthful penchant for books, cigarettes and deep meaningful moments with existentialist pseudo-goths was not deeply appreciated. And so, naturally, it was a penchant I favoured for a very long time.

Cue a mini mid life crisis. Thirty and droopy is not what I envisaged for the Prime of My Life. So, surprising all and sundry, I quit the smokes, gave up the Goths and joined the Virgin Active. *gasp*

Cousin dearest has been waiting patiently for just such a move. He can sense weakness. Sneaky bastard parades a selection of his finest single friends before me and then, just as I’m all soft and flirty, he sidles up and mentions that they’re all going for a walk on the weekend. Just the start of his master plan. I agree, not being of sound mind, and wake up to the screeching ring of my telephone on the chosen Saturday.

Aware that I might be make a massive mistake, I nevertheless pull on some jeans, my lovely new hiking boots and a pretty little pink top. Cousin picks me up. Grinning. Evilly. We drive to some remote place, half way up what seems to be a mountain I don’t know, clearly inaccessible to rescue helicopters, and meet up with said friends. I immediately start to sweat. They’re all in poly shorts and peaks. One kind soul whispers conspiratorially, ‘Don’t you have something else to wear? You’re going to get reeeally hot in jeans!’

A number of things go through my mind. Mostly, how bloody ugly polyshorts are and how you wouldn’t catch me dead in a pair. But I just shake my head, put on my sunnies and remind myself to kick Cousin in the shins if given a chance.

We start on the trail. It’s a mountain bike trail. All filled with mud and stuff. Which is fine. I like nature. I love looking at the stunning sweeping vistas from the comfort of the hammock on my dad’s country stoep. I love tramping up the drive of a cute country inn, anticipating a warm fire and an ice cold beer at the end. But I’m still not convinced about lots of it. Up close and personal.

But I’m willing to keep an open mind.

Then we turn the frikkin’ corner. Ahead is an unbelievably hideous stretch of vertical forever. I physically blanche. Cousin turns around. Cocks his head. Raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘Ja, what?’. I purse my lips at him and raise an eyebrow back. We do this, in my family, say a lot with our brows. Cousin turns back and continues to canter up the huge hill. Little shitbag. I grit my teeth and ignore the shooting pains in my calves, my back, my head.

Fortunately, one of the other chicks on the walk has an enormous hangover. Normally, I suspect, she’d be moutain goating up this hell along with all the other over-endorphined fitness fundies. Instead she’s wheezing and gasping right next to me. Smelling faintly of tequila. Giving me painful ‘What the fuck are we doing’ glances. I manage a rictal grin back. This was supposed to be fun.

I’m also becoming aware that jeans offer another joy I might have wanted to avoid. Chaff. So, when not observed by the others; which is often, considering they are now two kilometres ahead of me, I employ what can only be called the John Wayne shuffle. Kiff. I’m also getting damp. Not in the nice, knickerly way, but in the fly attracting, hair plastering, dripping down the armpit way. This is not a look I was hoping to embrace. I grimace, pleasingly.

Cousin is waiting for me at the crest of forever. Still with that fekkin’ stupid grin. Still with one wayward eyebrow. Still cocking a snoot. Wanker. I’m almost reduced to a crawl, but they ain’t breaking me yet. I try another smile. I look like a wet Doberman. With chaff. I reach the crest. Almost cry. Don’t. Snatch the water from Cousin’s hand and think in the reptilian recesses of my baking brain ‘You’re dead, you twisted little muscle mary, you’re dead.’

He points ahead. Beyond the crest is the beginning of the forest. Verdant shaded green. Huge towering gums. Moss and pine smell. The road is pointing down. I almost cry again. Don’t. Cock an eyebrow back at cousin and say ‘Not bad, china, not bad. So what are we doing next weekend?’

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18 thoughts on “Long. Winded. Blog

  1. dex says:

    Did you at least manage to hook up with one of the finest single friends afterwards?

  2. dolce says:

    But, clearly, I’m going to have to catch up with them first. My dad once suggested I wear a sign saying “if you can catch me, you can have me”. The thought being that if I wasn’t getting fit, I was at least getting laid. Actually….dammit….with family like this….

  3. dex says:

    your dad suggested that!?

    holyfuckinshitballs.

  4. dolce says:

    My dad is, well, odd. Although he knows some fantastic little limericks and ditties….um….

    The sexual life of the camel
    is not what everyone thinks
    at the height of the mating season
    it tries to bugger the Sphinx
    but the Sphinx’s posterior orifice
    is blocked by the sands of the Nile
    which explains the hump on the camel
    and the Sphinx’s inscrutable smile!

    I was thinking of making up some limericks about the blog people. But need to do some more thinking…

  5. dex says:

    He sound like a cool guy.

    Your limerics should be interesting too…

  6. dolce says:

    But forgive me, this is off the cuff and firmly tongue in cheek…

    There once was a blogger called Dex
    Who liked to posture and flex
    his words for the girls
    all giggles and curls
    like a literary Tyrannosaurus Rex

  7. bluepeter says:

    … there, D. Found another one for you:

    A pansy who lived in Khartoum
    Took a lesbian up to his room,
    And they argued a lot
    About who would do what
    And how and with which and to whom.

    Loved your blogs. Reminded me of the bookclubs I’ve given up, those long hikes up the freezing cold Waaihoek (good snow though) and of course reading old love-letters over a glass of red wine. Not to mention the couch! I’d say you’re welcome to warm my couch anytime but I don’t have one yet. Still in training.
    But my profession has taken quite a pounding here recently so I’ll
    just keep quiet on that score. Happy blogging.

  8. dex says:

    “posture and flex”??

    You cut me deep D, you cut me real deep. But I see your diss, and raise you mine:

    There once was a girl named Gabbana
    Her words drifted down just like manna
    yeah the kid makes us smile
    -give ger ten points for style-
    But she can’t keep a man
    Or a fella.

  9. dolce says:

    *sheeeeesh* Dex, that was low! Accurate, sure, but loooooow!

    Now let’s see….

    I know an old poet called Jack
    Who has a spectacular knack:
    A quite bendy agility
    of fellating ability
    For which he’s taken some flack

    *winks*

  10. dex says:

    That’s the funniest thing I’ve read in a long time. Seriously, you’re good girl.

    Although Jack might find it kinda hard to swallow.

  11. dolce says:

    I love it! I won a crate of beer with a version of that Khartoum limerick once, a long time ago.

    And this is one of my other favourites. From Aus, where a man was challenged to make a limerick out of Timbuktu

    me and Tim ashearing went
    found 3 sheilas in a tent
    they was 3 and we was 2
    so I bucked one
    and Timbuktu….

  12. dolce says:

    Not quite as funny, but….

    Housewives and dreamers, achtung
    For Andreas, who quotes Kafka and Jung
    He’s keen for a fight
    With the left or the right
    A blogmark Mao Zedong

  13. dex says:

    you should keep these and turn them into blog on their own

  14. micatyro says:

    A young, pretty blogger named Pi
    Took a dirty weekend with her guy
    They were found stoned and pissed
    Wearing slippers in the mist
    Throwing boerewors chunks at the sky

  15. jacktonsil says:

    As a poet who thrives on the pressure
    This thread is a nice little tester
    But words seem a bit false, hey
    In conversation with Dolce
    When the truth is, I’d rather just f*ck her

  16. ramon says:

    There once was a guy called Ramon
    who sat on a bus by a nun
    He thought she was Mandy
    Although she looked dandy
    by the next stop she got off and run!

  17. dolce says:

    I’m flattered….I think….um….

  18. dolce says:

    That’s funny! You play nice!!

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