Loving the Inner Pariah

In my year of firsts, tomorrow marks a very particular rite of passage. Tomorrow, I'm going to my very first football match at the hollowed ground that is the Melbourne Cricket Ground - my first time viewing a game at this ground. This, after twelve years living in Melbourne.

I've only been inside MCG three times in the past - despite living in walking distance from its hallowed wicket. I went there for Alice and Dougall's citizenship ceremony, I ran around the ground when I completed my first Melbourne Half Marathon, and again, I popped in after the 2011 Melbourne Half Marathon - that's it. No reason to go there. It's a place of football and cricket - best watched on the television.

Also, by football, I mean what I call real football - not that soccer crap (boring - nobody ever scores, people cry injured like the sooky la-las at the drop of a handkerchief), not Rugby League (thick set thugs throwing the ball backwards and slamming into each other).

I'm going to the only football code that makes any sense to me.

Australian Rules.

See, thing is, as much as I like football - I get bored after a quarter or two. I tend to prefer to watch the football on the telly so I can get some other stuff done, checking the scores every so often and paying attention when the crowd roars (if I have the sound turned up). Just like with the cricket. If things get a bit exciting, then I can sit down and watch the quarter.

Some of this boredom stems from the fact that as a kid I used to man the scoreboard at the Myponga Oval when the under 13s used to play. Nothing more interesting that watching the Myponga Junior Colts play the Goolwa Loonies or he Encounter Bay Heathens. Real fun. Ended up with bronchitis more often than not sitting out that scoreboard freezing my butt off during the cold, wet Myponga winters. I associate football with hacking, wet coughs and low grade fevers.

The admission that I can't quite watch a full game will probably horrify many "true" football fans too. I'll admit to liking the game. It's nice to know that my team has won - I can normally tell rough scores and margins at the end of most weekends during footy season, like I can tell you where we are on the ladder - but that's where it ends. Don't ask me the names of the players - no idea. By the end of the match I'll tell you who has nice legs and a fine bum.

It's a game. There are 18 men running round in short shorts on an oval - what's not to like? But being a game, after talking about it for five minutes, I'd prefer to talk about something sensible - like books or movies or work or the news. If it wasn't for the hot men in the short shorts, seriously, I'd be ignoring the game completely.

Another thing that is slightly worrying me about going to this particular match. Blarney's partner, Barney, invited me along to the match with some of his friends. Barney barracks for Hawthorn. Being from Northern Tasmania, this is to be expected, as this is Hawthorn heartland.

Me, on the other hand, coming from Adelaide, barrack for the opposing team.

The Adelaide Crows.

There are some fundamental differences between Hawks supporters - okay, any of the Melbourne teams, and Crows supporters.

First up, I'm from Adelaide. I say things like dah-nce, prah-nce, vah-se, chah -nce - not daaaance, praaance, vayse and chaaaance. Allegedly, I'm the one who talks funny.

Second, being from Adelaide, it is in my genes to be parochial, snotty, insolently superior and generally misguided - or so my Victorian counterparts tell me.

Thirdly, being from Adelaide, I'm supposedly feral. Adelaide supporters are known to be little tinkers, as my grandmother referred to me when I broke her television.

By feral, I mean we are known for do things like keying opposing teams cars in the car park, throwing beer cans at matches, swearing a lot and generally being loud, obnoxious and unpleasant to be around.

I look at this description and I immediately think of Port Adelaide supporters - who make Adelaide supporters look like Cistercian nuns. Port supporters are the Collingwood/Millwall/(insert the lower socio-economic scumbag team here) supporters of South Australia.

This pretty much sums it up:

And this is quite accurate too:

So tomorrow, I meet Blarney and about ten of his mates, all Hawthorn supporters.I will be sitting there in my blue, red and yellow clothing, my Crows scarf and beanie (although it's allegedly going to be 27 degrees Celsius in the shade) looking at my freshly painted blue fingernails, hoping to hell we don't disgrace ourselves too much - as the rest of the people I'm with cheer on the other team.

The last match I went to we lost by 103 points. I was sitting there with friend hoping that Etihad Stadium would flood or be overtaken by another act of God so that the purgatory was over quickly.

I've never been to a game where we've won. The tidings aren't good.

Then there are the other football pastimes you're expected to partake in. Eat a meat pie and drink football beer at half time.

First up, I've never eaten a meat pie in my life. Allegedly made from horse meat - well, that is what I was told as a kid. They look and smell revolting - why should I start now? Footy food isn't that inspiring.

Secondly, the beer they serve at the footy is this stuff called "mid-strength". It's watered down beer and tastes like watered down beer. With all the new rules around bringing things into the grounds, I'm buggered if I'm paying a fiver for a cup of tea too.

I do have to go? Yes. I have to wave my team colours proudly - it's a matter of state pride. I have to show that I am a proud and loyal South Australian, even if I left there twenty-one years ago never to return for more than a few days at a time.

I know that I'll have to go and endure the endless jibes about Adelaide being the murder capital of the Australia ( But I lived there 23 years and I didn't get murdered once.), that you can go to Adelaide and find it closed on any given weekend or that although the place is 30 minutes behind the rest of the mainland in time, it's 20 years behind in fashion and almost everything else.

Okay, so it's not trendy to be an Adelaide supporter.

But it's what you do when you come from a backwater that's infested with white pointer sharks, acid wash denim wearing Elizabethans and gets less rain than some places in the Sahara. It inspires a misguided pride. It is where I come from. I am a proud flag waving South Australian. Fifth generation South Australian, me. It's something about me that's not going to change in a hurry.

Long live my inner pariah. C'ARN THE CROWS!!!

And pray that the Crow's winning streak continues - to date, we haven't lost a game this year, including winning the pre-season "Who Cares" Cup.

Pandx

Another One Off the Bucket List

Jonella dared me to blog about this experience.

Talking to a friend earlier today, I explained that in a former life I was probably a cat - and that I'm far too curious for my own good at times. They agreed with me. Far too curious. Always sticking my nose in places I shouldn't. Always looking down alleyways and through doorways. Nosey to some - curious to others.

Looking back over the last forty years I can name some experiences that I've wanted to try and I can say I've done it once or twice - and that will do. Party drugs fall in to this category. After taking ecstasy and speed on a few occasions in my twenties, I can say that I've tried it, didn't like it that much and we'll leave it at that. I've tried absinthe - once, had to be done. I've danced all night in clubs. I've seen amazing cinema and plays. I've read books I've been told to avoid - 'American Psycho' comes to mind on this one.

Also, as a practising alternative therapist, I've tried some weird and wonderful things over the years. One of the great things about body work, like Alice's Rabbit Hole, it keeps getting deeper and darker. I play with feet all the time, and have no issue with rubbing a person's manky clodhoppers (after they've been cleaned). Being into alternatives,you feel obliged to visit other forms of alternative therapy - just to experience them. Laughter therapy was something that got tried a few months ago. I've done the odd past-life regression, I know of a Middendorf Breath Practitioner. I'm fond of Alexander Technique, have had the odd kinesiology appointment and know all about Theta Healing and Reference Point Therapy.

Today's appointment, however, was the last bastion in the alternatives.

Colonic irrigation.

For something that's a common activity for everybody on the planet, our back passages and the muck that's excreted  from this hole is a bit of a no go area. We talk about headaches. We women talk about our cycles, with each other, some of the time. But nobody talks about poo. Farts, yes. Poo, no.

A few weeks ago, on one of the group buying websites, a voucher for colonic irrigation came up. And in a fit of madness and curiosity, I purchased it.

And after pressing the buy button, I felt a sense of regret. No going back now (unless I let the voucher lapse, and I'm too mean for that.)

Well, today was the day for my allotted appointment to have my back passage flushed.

I mentioned this to a few friends, the response mostly being, "You're brave, always wanted to try that. You'll have to tell me all about it." A few others said, "Better you than me." I've also got a few friends who swear by colonics for various issues and complaints. Jay, my doctor mate from the gym said it was a waste of time and money.

Me, I've just always been curious about this process.

At the end of it, I'd call it more confronting, but not in a bad way. It can be a touch uncomfortable, but certainly not painful. And as for the benefits - we will see.

On arriving at the clinic in Camberwell, home to the colonic flush according to my naturopath ("Could it be that there are more people in Camberwell full of shit?" he postulated.) I was made to fill in the necessary paper work. The woman at reception was professional and calming. I explained that I was a feature writer and this was being done in the name of research - and that I'd always been curious.

Serves me right.

Of the positives of the whole experience, everything in the place was surgically clean and at no time did I feel ill informed or violated. Everything was explained completely and every effort was made to make me feel at ease. At all times I felt my privacy was respected and I did not feel exposed. So they're the good things.

Looking at the whole process, which took about 45 minutes in total, there were some uncomfortable moments. The first one came when asked to stick the lubricated tube in the position.

The bit of tubing that is inserted into your bum the least of these strange moments. About the diameter of a standard  pencil, you're asked to insert this 2 centimetres into you anus. No dramas here at all. You then arrange yourself on a special table, put a towel over your bottom half and call the therapist in with a buzzer, who then starts the treatment.

Think of it like an internal dish washing cycle. A first rinse, a deep cleansing and a final rinse. You're given the instruction, "When you feel the need to release, release." as the therapist starts pumping the water in. This is where things get a bit strange. There is a tube up your back passage  - how is the rubbish supposed to escape and the tube not pop out? Somehow, it doesn't. Fluid comes in, fluid goes out. Ad infinitum. The sensation is strange, but not unpleasant. They give you a large, heated wheat bag to place on your abdomen to help alleviate any cramping. It was welcome, but I had no cramps. It was more comforting than anything.

The waste is drained off and suctioned out via a clear tube into the plumbing. I only found this out after the treatment, so I didn't watch what was coming out. Thank goodness.

The deep cleanse cycle is a bit of relief. After a ten minute initial rinse out, you're filled with a mixture of coffee, herbs and charcoal, which trickles in, rather than being pumped in over a few minutes. You're also asked to hold this in. After this, it's another 15 minutes of rinsing with body temperature, filtered water.

What does it feel like?  Hmm, best way I would describe it is rear-end gastro without the cramps, bloating, fever or urgency to get to the nearest loo. You do feel cleaned out after. This is the good thing about colonics.

After the treatment is over, you're asked to removed the tube, rinse yourself off and dress. All over in the hour.

I found the process confronting, not for what was being done, nor for what happened in the clinic itself. It was more the what was coming out. What is this shame attached to poo in all its forms? Why is it we don't give poo it's full credence? It's just another bodily substance. The other thing that was confronting was after the session, getting off the table, seeing some of the results in the capture area. I was told to not touch anything, just rinse myself off and go. My mother's voice went off in my head, the one that always tells me to leave the bathroom how you found it. Protestant training or shame? I can't be sure.

On leaving the centre, I was given the instructions to drink a lot of water and make sure I avoided starchy foods for the next few days.

So I take myself off to the movies, having a bit of time to kill and not really up for a run - went and saw "A Dangerous Method". Quite ironic that it was a movie about Sigmund Freud. After a necessary stop at the bathroom to finalise the job started at the clinic, the film was a great way to debrief, which was needed. The experience effected me a little more than I thought it would.

And now, a few hours on, I feel a bit whooshy, but fine. Again, it's like that feeling you get after you've had gastro, when all the symptoms are gone and you just feel empty - and this is the good thing.

Would I go back again for another session. Yes, but it's not something I'd rush back to. For now, this is in the basket of things, like party drugs, absinthe and paint balling - glad I've given it ago once, it's been demystified, but I'm not in any hurry to go back.

I'm still glad I'm an inquisitive wee beastie - being a Leo, I am naturally curious, it's in my blood - and I wonder what will be next off the list. Skydiving? Ashram in India? A Burlesque course? Advanced Driver Training? Scuba diving? (Huge fear of open water - can't see that one happening in a hurry)

However a few friends have been asked to remind me, next time I'm going to cross off something like colonic irrigation off the bucket list, ask me if I REALLY want to do it. I'll probably still say yes, just consider it a bit longer before taking the plunge.

Pandora the Pugilist

In my drive to do new things this year, I did another one today. Boxing class.

This Easter all I have officially planned is meeting my friend Felicity (or Flick as I call her) and her kids at a playground tomorrow for a go on the seesaw and a coffee as well as going round to Blarney and Barney's on Monday - that's all that's planned anyway.

Today, however, I got to do something new. Something that I used to love but haven't had an inroad to for a while. Something guaranteed to put a smile of my face. Something I know that I haven't done for years but used to love.

Boxing!

The girls on the 12WBT programme had been telling me about this boxing place for weeks. "Ah, you'll love Tommy!", "It's just up your alley, Pand, get in there." Those sorts of comments. However, normally being held on a Saturday morning, often when I have meditation - and out near the 1000 Steps in Ferntree Gully - there was little chance of me going.

However, today, being Good Friday, and not being religious, I thought a charity boxing event would be a good thing to do. Thankfully, this boxing place was having a 90 minute boxing circuit for charity session. $10 all of which was going to the Good Friday Appeal for the Royal Children's Hospital. Can't say no to that!

Earlier in the week, I mentioned this to Flick. A mother of two, she gets little time to herself - but I asked her if she'd like to come along. She agreed, saying she'd always wanted to try boxing and her husband would be home to look after the kids. Okay, I said, pick her up from her place at nine, be there for 9.30. All good.

I didn't tell Flick that after doing my first boxing class some 15 years ago, I was sore for three days and slept close on eleven hours after that class. It was my biggest fitness wake up call ever.

The not so stupid thing was that that class spurned me on to go boxing three times a week, get my fitness on track and start taking things further. I love boxing. It's fast, its furious, it's fun - and it gets you fitter quicker than almost any other exercise. In London, after three years of it, I was training with one of Lennox Lewis's old trainers in Camden. It was the fittest I've ever been (though I'm getting close to that now)

We rocked up with about 200 others for this charity bash. The boxing studio, not much more than a tin shed that smelled of linament, sweat and aging leather was reminiscent of the old "blood on the mat, blokes only" boxing gym I trained at in London. They all smell the same - they all look the same. It's wonderful! Once ushered into the shed, we got straight into it - after signing a disclaimer and gloving up.

It was utterly brilliant! 90 minutes of constant pounding. Jabs, crosses, hooks, uppercuts - push ups, sit ups, squats. SO COOL!

Working with Flick, who's never boxed in her life, was actually a good thing. It kept me from going completely feral. I had to pull my punches a little. I also got to help her by giving her some tips on technique and calm a few of the instructors moves for her (i.e. squats instead of burpees - I don't do burpees - why should she?)

Flick love it - I loved it. What a stunning morning! After saying goodbye to the 12wbt crew and having a decent stretch back at the car, we went home - pretty tired, a little sore and feeling very good about ourselves.

I have a photo of myself and Nicole from the 12wbt from today. This is the after shot - and I reckon we look FANTASTIC! (Thanks for the photo, Nicole - your son is a great photographer.)

Check out the focus pads! (those things on the end of my hands)

Oh, I have a thing when boxing - I have to wear my most confronting t-shirts. This one is a gym favourite. It reads "The beatings will continue until morale improves." I'm also aware that I'm wearing a knee brace, strapping around my left calf (small strain, nearly resolved) and my rings are placed in my bra where they can't get caught in gloves. The joys of fitness.

I so hope to do this again - and soon!

Getting home, I turned around, went over to Glen Waverley and Merijn's to feed their cat and have a long, hot, lectric soda bath. Lectric soda bath? Poor man's radox. Go to the laundry aisle of the supermarket, it's about two dollars a bag. Half a cup of it mixed with a few drops of lavender oil and sprinkle into a hot bath to get rid of all your aches and pains. It really works.

I'm sitting here now feeling great. I'm sure my lats and arms are going to sting tomorrow. It's a great feeling.

I just wander if Flick will still be talking to me tomorrow. If my first response to boxing is anything to go by.

Attacking Excuses

Well, Sweet F.A. Day was such a success I reckon I'll try to schedule one in every fortnight. It was a bit of a revelation. Okay, so I ended up taking in an eleven kilometre walk, did some job stuff, went to the gym and did some cleaning - not really doing nothing, but I did it on my own, in my own time, with nobody around asking for my time, advice or energy. It was wonderful. People contact was done on my terms. I came out of the day feeling refreshed and happy. It also set me up for a new set of challenges.

I really have no excuse to not do it again soon.

I've started to look at my excuses for why I don't do things. Most of it comes down to unfounded fear.

In my New Year's Resolution to do something I've never done once a week, it was time to face the biggest gym fear of all. Body Attack.

In my gym career to date I've tended to stick with that which I know about. Pushing weights, seeing Pinochet, cardio machines, rowing, Pump class, running and of course, spinning class. All good. Yet the two classes they offer at my gym more than others were the ones I've never been to - BodyCombat and BodyAttack.

When I went to Combat last week I loved every minute of it.

So when Kitt texted saying I should come to Attack on Monday, I jumped at the chance. If I could do Combat, surely I could do Attack - well that was the theory.

There were a few bonuses to going to this class. Firstly, the instructor, Claire, is a favorite from Sunday morning Pump - that made things feel a little better - knowing Claire, I immediately felt supported - she's used to seeing me rock up just as the doors are closing on Sunday. And allegedly, Kitt would be nearby to make sure I didn't get up to too much mischief..

Secondly, after the experience of BodyCombat - knowing I could do the class and not die, why shouldn't attack be the same? Okay, from the outside it looks like a sponsored group epileptic fit - but maybe it wouldn't be that bad? I could only try. I let Claire know about my current knee problem, she said she'd give me lower impact stuff to do. Then I looked around for Kitt. She wasn't there. Bummer. Would have to go this one alone.

Turns out, once again, my fears were unfounded. Once again, I had a ball. Once again, I kept up well and wasn't a hyperventilating wreck at the end of the class. Once again my fears proved unfounded.

I saw Kitt come in the gym through the corner of my eye. She didn't stop to wave, so I gathered she hadn't saw me. We caught up later - I had to thank her for getting me there in the first place.

So in the past three weeks, I've taken a baby for swimming lessons, done a Body Combat and Body Attack class - what other new things will I find to do now?

So if I'm looking at all my fears, and the excuses I have that keep me from reaching my goals I suppose I have to look at the elephant in the room. Weight loss.

With all of the focus on diet and exercise over the last month, I'm half wondering why I did this - but Ive decided I need to tackle a few demons in my road to reaching a healthy weight.

I'm the first one to pat myself on the back for a start. In the last few years I'm managed to keep 20 kilograms off my frame, get really fit and begin to see myself as something more than a fat, lazy, ugly blob. Since Christmas, I've been back on the wagon - being brilliant with what I eat, keeping my exercise up and losing a few kilos - which feels great. Yet I still feel there needs to be a bit more structure.

In keeping with challenging myself, I've signed up for the Michelle Bridges 12 Week Body Transformation Challenge. It's something some of the girls from the Biggest Loser Club are doing to give ourselves a kick up the bum - and I've joined them.

The program starts in earnest on the 21st of February, but in the meantime, we've been set some homework to prepare ourselves for the task ahead. The first task - look at the excuses you make for not losing weight, or not getting to your goals.

Hmm. Well. let me see. What are my excuses for not losing weight. Not exercising. Not getting down to my goal weight. I'm doing all these things - I've been doing all these things (though the last six months of last year wasn't pretty - but you have to know when to calm it down)

My excuses, it appears, all comes down to fear.

I know I tend to use the busy excuse at times for not exercising - but I know how to come out of this one well. I can't use the no time to cook excuse any more. The last few weeks have got me back into the good habits again. I also don't have the all or nothing approach any more. Fall off the horse as little as possible and get straight back on again - none of this, "Well, I've been bad today, may as well continue" rubbish. Treats, such as the odd bit of ice cream, are also factored in in strict moderation.

So what's my problem? What's my greatest fear about losing weight. After a lot of soul searching , it comes down to two things. I have no concept of what it is to be slender (I'm not using the words thin or skinny - I want to be healthy - not anorexic) The last time I was around my goal weight was during first year university - where I was told to lose ten kilos by the uni doctor - I remember being so humiliated, I never went back there.

The second is more insidious. I get scared when I feel attractive. I don't know how to cope with this. I remember a boss of mine struggling with this - and I know last time I was down around my slimmest two years ago I was feeling the same thing. There was more attention. There were positive comments. There were furtive looks, flirting even. I could buy flattering clothes. And I didn't cope that well.

It seems this is what I have to start dealing with. Conquer these fears and maybe the rest will follow.


Just how I'm going to do this, I have no idea - but at least I know what the fears and excuses are now. That is the true start of the battle. Wish me luck.

On a less angst-ridden theme, the rest of life is moving on nicely. The job hunting is beginning to pay dividends. I've got an interview with the Department of Education for a two month contract tomorrow. Recruitment Consultants are calling back now, so hopefully they will be finding me something suitable soon. I'm hopeful. I feel that employment isn't too far away. The cards are looking good regardless.

As for the situations in the last blog, well, there's been nothing more from Lorelei. I've banished that one from my head - the less said the better.

My aunt, on the other hand, is still very poorly. It's a dreadful situation - she's not improving at the moment. At least I have my sympathy back now and can feel bad for her - and send love to my Uncle and his family. In such a situation, you can't do much more. My heart goes out to them.

The situation puts a lot of things in perspectives. My demons are small compared to what other people are going through at the moment. Because of this I've got no excuse to hunt them down and conquer them.

Pandx

The Reluctant Pugilist

I'm growing used to the ups and downs of being in this state of between jobness. For the most part, my tactic of making sure I'm pretty busy works in keeping my moods in check. Then there are times when the doldrums strike and I have to work out how to get myself back on track.

Today, on waking, there was a little feeling of sadness. Her Royal Highness went home yesterday and she's left big hole - thankfully not in the furniture, but her little, happy, cuddly presence was no longer in the flat. I was becoming used to waking up to a cuddle first thing in the morning (well, the cuddle came after I'd deigned to feed her... bloody cats).

Then came the time to plan the day. An hour of reading, writing, job hunting, exercising and cleaning. I set myself the spin class at lunchtime at the gym for the exercise portion of the day. Writing was the first job off the ranks, challenging myself to submit an article to the local paper. Cleaning would take place once the article was in. Job hunting was relegated to after the gym and reading would take place before going to dream group. All nice and orderly.

To some, this might seem like an anal way to plan the day, especially when I'm effectively on holiday, but I like the order and the structure. I like to think that I'm doing something constructive with the time.

By eleven, the article had been sent in and I was half way through the ironing pile. I was dressed in my gym gear ready to get all sweaty on a stationary bike for an hour when the call came in. Uncle Mike, an old family friend. The sort of old family friend who calls me Pandy, drops by whenever he's in Melbourne (just as I do when I'm in Brisbane) and I love catching up with him and his wife. He and Aunt Joan are some of the lovely people from my childhood. He said they'd be over in half an our to take me to lunch.

Bugger, there goes spin class.

They turned up in their converted bus cum motor home. One of the best things about Uncle Mike is that you'd never know what sort of vehicle he'll be turning up in. He's taken me to school in everything from a semi-trailer to a fifty seater luxury bus to a Rolls Royce. Uncle Mike used to do something with transport - I've never been sure what exactly, but it appears he never goes anywhere in the same vehicle twice.

After a leisurely lunch at the Ikea Cafe, they went off back to Brisbane and I got stuck into the job hunting and the ironing.

It was then the doldurms struck. Exercise - what to do? Being due at dream group at 7.30 what were the options?. I'd texted Pinochet to see if he wanted a training partner. He texted back "Haha, I'm training with a couple of guys today. You train with the other girls. That's why they are there. You're funny but I love your enthusiasm." Piffle. He's just scared I'll show the grunty boys how it's done. Without stopping to pose after ever ten reps. Probably a blessing looking at it now. I don't like posers.

Then the cry went out. Bless Facebook. " Pandora Behr is trying to find the motivation to do something constructive. Since my lunchtime spin class was rudely taken away I'm a bit lost."

Emm and Kit came to the rescue. Emm said come into the city and do spin with her. Kit said come to BodyCombat class.

Over the past few years, one thing that I've had pressed into me - exercise is far more fun if you do it with somebody else. I  tend to do the exercise when I know that somebody is waiting for  me at the other end, whether that be the gym, the pool or a car park. Other people egg me on to do better, do more, go further - and on some days, just get my sorry bum around a gentle lap of the Tan track (A lap of the Botanical Gardens is one of the nicest city walks in Melbourne with a big hill thrown in for good measure)

I chose the Kit option - Body Combat. Argh. Another new thing. Every time I've looked at the Body Combat class I've dissed it for another sponsored epileptic fit of a class. On speaking to the instructor before we started, I told her of my bung knee. She looked me up and down, told me to take it easy with the kicking and told me to get back to the back row where I could blend in.

Oh, how wrong was I. It was the best fun I've had doing a cardio workout in ages. Burned nearly 600 calories in the class according to my heart rate monitor. Kit kept on looking over at me. After calling her every name under the sun, she could see I was having a ball. I more than kept up. I didn't want to die half way through. I seemed to be doing better than some of the regulars. "See, you had nothing to worry about."

Jabs, crosses, uppercuts, hooks, body blows - just not connecting the punches. Yep, all in my repertoire. I have to work on my roundhouse kicks -  but then again, I'm not Chuck Norris - he's the king of the roundhouse.

Muscle memory is a wonderful thing.

What I haven't told many people. Boxing is the one thing that got me into exercise. Back in London, 15 years ago, the gym in the basement at work ran a boxercise class. I'd just discovered Weight Watchers in the months before and decided to try to do some exercise to help things along. For some reason I chose to do this manic, high intensity class.

I remember coming back from that first lunchtime class the colour of a beetroot, exhausted and barely able to work after, such was the intensity on my poor, unfit, overweight body. This was the first time I'd ever done a real cardio class. I went home after the day, slept for eleven hours that night and could barely move the next day. (see below for obligatory beetroot shot taken after my first sponsored run - I just wish I got my pink geek t-shirt in better)


Strangely - I went back two days later, and again, and again. Two years after that first class I was training with one of Lennox Lewis's old coaches in a grunty boy gym complete with blood on the mat, a canvas ring and obligatory wrist strapping.

Boxing was the class that actually go me into exercise. Since then, I've managed to get over most of my exercise phobias. I've always walked a lot, but I've managed to keep a gym membership and use it regularly. Strangely, I took up running at the ripe old age of 40. I'll do spin class, weights, you name it, I'll do it (except burpees - refuse to do burpees - they give me vertigo)

So now, I'm sitting here, I know I have Latsimus Dorsi muscles (Back muscles to the masses) - they're a bit tight. My right deltoid (shoulder) is a a little achy. But hell, I feel good!

The reluctant pugilist has been awakened.

Next Wednesday, before dream group, I'll be back - punching the air, kicking away the demons, trying to perfect my Chuck Norris roundhouse kick.

And I know I've come full circle.

The Swimming Lesson

In my year of trying new things, yesterday's adventure will go down as one of the more memorable and fun.

Yesterday morning I got to take Chance, one of Blarney's twins, for his first swimming lesson. This was brilliant fun. Much less challenging or oppressive than Zumba, and certainly far more rewarding.

A bit of history. I love the water. Like most Australian children, I was dunked at about three-years-old, had my first lessons at four and have been swimming regularly ever since. I'm not of any great standard, but I'm a reasonably strong swimmer and I'm very comfortable in the water, pool, sea or river. If there's a party with a pool, I'm in there. I don't have any scruples about going for a swim. It's me in my natural element.

Blarney, on the other hand, is Irish. She learned to swim two years ago. I'm so proud of the fact she can now do twenty lengths of the local pool with ease - something we do regularly all year round. She's often lamented that not knowing how to swim has stopped her doing things on holidays and she's adamant that her boys will be able to swim well.

So now Chance and Lance are over the age of six months, it's time to get them in the water. Aunty Panda blurted out a few months ago that if she needed a hand with swimming lessons to shout and I'd be there. I'd be available on the weekends I don't have meditation on Saturday morning.

Blarney shouted and Saturday morning we traipsed down to the Altona Pool to put Chance through his paces.

It often surprises me - I'm a 42-year-old, childless woman. Why would anybody leave me with their child? Let alone take them into a pool for a half hour lesson? Blarney, in her wisdom, told me to take Chance for his lesson while she played with Lance in the kiddie pool. Chance seemed to like the bath more and is a bit more dextrous that his brother. Neither Chance or Lance are crawling yet, but they're going for swimming lessons.

Glumph. Something new for Aunty Panda.

So Chance, in his swimmer nappy, and  me in my togs, jumped in with Sam the instructor, and ten others. Three dads, a mum and one grandpa, with their offspring, aged from six months to two years for the half hour lesson.

This is some of the best fun I've had in years. Chance had a ball as we did the "motorboat" and the chase the balls, fall off the edge into the chest,the float on backs and the run/crawl/dance on the mat. To their credit, little Max, Marnie, Jaxon, Deke and Shawna were exemplary students. No tears, no screaming. They all seemed to love the class, as did Chance, who's an ace at floating on his back (with a bit of support) and kicking in the water. Bubbles are a bit beyond him, but give him time. I got lots of smiles and giggles from him. The only thing he wasn't too fond of was going under water under a bar (with help). A toss in the air or two got his smile back after that nasty interruption.

What was more fun was watching the adults really get into the class - singing, jumping, larking about.

As a bonus, nobody drowned.

It was really sad to see the class end, on which we got out of the pool and went and found Blarney. She said she's been looking over periodically and we seemed as happy as pigs in muck.

She and Lance had lots of fun in the kiddy pool. One on one time they rarely get.

We got home and Chance conked out immediately, falling alsleep in his high chair between mouthfuls of mushed up pumpkin.

Next week, Barney will take Lance for his lesson and Chance will have Mummy time.

All I know is I feel incredibly honoured and privileged to get to do such things, as it is an honour to have a friend trust you with their child as such. Not that I have any regrets not having had children, I just know that getting to do these sorts of things with the boys is something I will cherish for life.