However, it would appear that I have a bit of an internal conflict when it comes to these matters.
Despite my occasional best attempts to become Waynetta Slob’s less glamorous sister, there is a part of me that likes to do things. Physical things. No, not that, but being active. Outdoors. And walking – even running – long distances.
Take last Sunday. When I should have been snuggled under my duvet in the land of nod (Jonny Depp’s presence in my unconscious optional) I got up at 7am to join my dad and his walking group on a 13 mile hike across the Peak District. It wasn’t easy – there were hills, streams, and stupid amounts of mud, often all at the same time – but, despite being knackered at the end of it, I quite enjoyed it, and had a lovely time with my dad and fully intend to do it again.
Then, take my choice of holiday in May.
I could go to Spain and sit on a beach for a fortnight, or go to Dubai for a long weekend to blow my savings on a five star hotel and six too many fake Chanel handbags. But, oh no. I am in the process of booking a trip to Peru – with a trek of the Inca trail included. Yes, I really want to do it, and, okay, this makes me slightly bonkers.
But my level of insanity does not stop there. Last week I entered the ballot for the Great North Run in September. When I wasn’t successful, there was part of me that was a little bit relieved. Actually, very relieved. But then I got an email from the Alzheimer’s Society inviting me to join in the fun by registering directly with my chosen charity. Needless to say, I said yes, and am now having to come to terms with the fact that in 7 months time I will be putting myself at risk of a cardiac arrest as I huff and puff around Newcastle.
So, why do I do this to myself? I’m not quite sure, but I put it down to two things. One is my inability to do nothing – a handicap at times and a bit of a conflict with my man (who sits at the other end of the spectrum) but something that I don’t beat myself up about as long as I keep it in check.
The other reason? Well, a couple of years ago I decided to try a new mantra; Fuck It. Okay, so perhaps a little crude, but so far it has worked wonders. It helped me build up the courage to finally learn how to ride a bike (at 30), finish my novel, set up my website and try to sell some of my arts and crafts on Etsy and at Christmas markets. Okay, so some of my pursuits have gone better than others, but at least if I never get a novel published and end up walking around the whole 13.1 mile course in September, I can say that I gave it a shot – and will have some fabulous photos of Machu Picchu and a few less toenails to prove it (I lost half of one after my hike on Sunday – ouch!).
So, if you see any tall blondes hobbling around London cursing themselves between now and the fall, have sympathy for them. They just suffer from Fuck It syndrome – and wish they knew how to downgrade it to Maybe Tomorrow disease...