I'm back!!!

Guess who’s back in town?

Well you won’t guess because I’m back from the hollybob with a new ring and a new name!

Yes, I’ve finally been made an honest woman.

Mrs Phillips.

HP if you please.

Anyway, I honestly believe my new title effected my running…it certainly affected me. I became Mrs Affected Phillips.

So, like I promised, I packed the old daps and my newest running gear all ready for the honeymoon…lalala.

I unpacked the daps and the newest running gear and then promptly forgot all about it!

Only kidding, but I may as well have left it at home after my feeble attempts. I say feeble but Cancun, Mexico in the middle of August is one boiling place. Cancun, Mexico gyms in the middle of August are even more boiling plus…I hadn’t run on a treadmill since the time I went to a posh gym in the country on my butties parents membership, pressed the wrong button and fell off the bloody thing. Scraping both shins so bad ( I neglected to let go of the machine as I flew off it) I was bed bound, minus the duvet of course, for two weeks.

So after the wedding of my little dreams, a night at a posh Manchester hotel, a twenty two pound breakfast and then a ten hour flight we got to Mexico in a flurry of excitement not to mention tiredness and, well, being completely overwhelmed.

Then Scotty Boy had to endure the whole, ‘Oh my god, my first lemonade as a married woman, my first poo as a married woman, my first everything as a married woman.’ I thought it was brilliant but by the time I declared I’d had my ninth poo as a married woman he grew slightly impatient.

The gym.

The dreaded gym.

The first day was FAB! I loved it. I was there at seven in the morning like a child in a sweet shop. I named my treadmill Princess Diana and climbed aboard like we were old friends. If you didn’t know me you’d have thought I was a professional gym bunny…I did…that was until I saw the fat girl in the mirror in the same outfit as me.

‘Not again.’ I sighed to which a bald Scottish guy told me that he came every day too.

I couldn’t just walk out.

I couldn’t just walk out.

I couldn’t.

Go on…

Go on…

I pressed start. And prayed to some sort of God.

Bounce baby bounce sprang to mind, shortly followed by, be fucked its boiling!

That first day I managed two and a half poxy miles.

Don’t worry…don’t worry…its day one…you’ll get used to the heat.

Ha!

The second little trip to the gym resulted in me getting three and a half miles to tick off my imaginary chart.

I was hot, sweaty and so uncomfortable it was unreal.

The third and final visit was going quite well…well, well’ish.

I was comfortable and trying not to pay too much attention to the red dials screaming how very little I’d actually run when in walks one of those people. You know, the ones that people pretend don’t actually exist. Those ones that walk in the gym and spend their entire session looking in the mirror and doing very little else.

When I’ve spoken about my apprehension regarding going to the gym and those type of people, I’ve been hushed quiet, ‘don’t be silly, people who use the gym, work out. The posers are like the loch ness monster…a myth!’

TAKE ME TO SCOTLAND.

Because on the third day I pilgrimaged to make up some mileage, in walked something as rare as Big Foot apparently.

One of those people.

Now, this little squirt was five foot a fart and looked harmless enough.

Harmless my arse.

He wandered about, not touching a machine, just lifting his top up to admire his finely toned tummy and don’t get me wrong it was pretty impressive but seriously come on!

He put me off.

Really put me off.

The chubby kid got off her treadmill, head hung low.

Two poxy miles.

 

Now, let me impart some of my Mexican wisdom upon you…it’s too hot in the gyms! It’s too cool in the bar! It’s too nice to exercise!

I also learnt some phrases like;

Hola!

Amigo!

Tequila!

No! Please don’t arrest him!

Yes…just what every honeymoon needs…the groom banged up for thirty six hours in a Mexican prison.

Now, I’ve warned Scotty Boy about such actions…what actions you say?

PISSING. IN. THE. STREET!

‘Don’t do it I pleaded.’

‘I’ve got too!’ he whined.

‘Yippie!’ The police whooped.

It took some severe waterworks from me, a shit load of cash from Scotty Boy and a bit of a telling off via the police.

FAB!

‘One to tell the kids, ey?’ we’d giggled the next day…him lighter in the pocket department…me frayed in the nerve area.

You’ll also be pleased to hear I wasn’t violated by a dolphin…only kissed by a baby called Mya. Nice at the time then my head started doing the maths and I convinced myself I had defiantly caught a bought of herpes from the bloody thing. I mean, a lot and I’d like to reiterate that a lot of people pucker up to those beautiful creatures every day.

‘I’m going to die!’ I told Scotty washing my mouth in anything that resembled clean liquid. (Corona)

‘We are going to die!’ Scotty Boy reassured as we watched a million little Mexicans in hard hats start to board everything up as the heavens opened and the wind howled.

‘You are going to die!’ the Mexican barman reassured even further, ‘Have another Corona!’

Shit the bed.

Obviously we didn’t die but the whole Mayan prophecy thingy’s were flying about along with most of Mexico’s trees!

Happy bloody honeymoon darling.

Thankfully the hurricane passed but it took with it my optimism.

‘I don’t want to run out here.’ I said in a tiny voice to my husband.

‘Then don’t.’ he said simply. ‘You’re on your honeymoon.’

‘Good point.’ I smiled. And that was that.

Literally.

The daps were packed away along with the knee strap, the bras, the ankle socks. The only thing that wasn’t folded under the unnecessarily brought beach towels was my catholic guilt.

‘I feel shit. I feel really, really shit.’

And then I found Pina Coladas! And although I felt like a complete and utter prick ordering the world’s most girly cocktail, I certainly enjoyed knocking them back.

‘I used to run!’ I slurred at the bar.

So to say the plan is monumentally fucked would be an understatement and I’ve been back from le’honeymoon for four days and its only now my head has caught up from my body so theres been no chance of any running action…although to be fair there’s been no chance of any action since Mexico.

Bollocksed springs to mind.

Anyway, I’m back in work…back in the game and I’m ready to get my trainers back on…tomorrow.

Definitely tomorrow.