It’s funny to think that just over a week ago we were building up pavilions (that a few short hours later were to be dramatically felled in a storm), we were rehearsing the Gay Gordons (which we wouldn’t need because we had never intended our garden to become a mud wrestling arena) and we were blowing up space hoppers (which were then inappropriately used as footballs by small boys, providing one of the first catalysts of the evening for the ADHD one’s meltdowns).
It seems like such a long time ago. And yet, it was only just over a week.
A little more than 7 days ago, a friend asked me if I ran on adrenaline. I could give her the concrete answer that I definitely wasn’t being rejuvenated by sleep. After all, I was only averaging 4 hours a night. I thought about the question a little, and decided, after looking up at the sun-filled sky, that I must run on solar power.
I stared at the sun (and the sun, after I’d recovered from my blind spot, twinkled back down at me) and I smiled. Full of giddy anticipation of cake and guests and sushi and cake and dancing and space hoppers and actual hopping, and cake and showing the Germans just how to do the Gay Gordons and the highlight: an extra stubborn piñata donkey.
And then a bloody great grey cloud arrived, cut off my energy supply and I was forced to down cheap bubbly wine and
Duracell batteries homemade mint chocolate truffles.
I can’t believe that we were still living and celebrating the festivities just over 168 hours ago!
I’ve spent the days since waving goodbye to friends, attacking overflowing bins, finding little surprises I hid from myself in the midst of my I-think-I’m-funny boozed-up state, pouring through photos, wondering if I should vacuum the confetti off the grass and devouring the Olympics.
Yesterday, I overdid myself in the latter activity, it would seem.
I should inform you: I’m completely useless at sport.
I can’t throw a javelin more than a meter.
My P.E. teacher used to despair of me.
And it all got much worse when I accidentally swivelled too far and lunged the discus into my terrified team…
I suspect that my teacher had had a premonition. I’d been given a beanbag.
I really hold no malice at having always been the last to be picked for school sports teams. I suppose my classmates feared for their own safety whilst in my vicinity.
Despite my own inadequacies though, I still love to watch the pole vaulters and the pommel horsers and the sprinters and I had a lovely, restoring nap during the men’s 10,000 meters.
But I think I must have cheered/clapped/cried too much as Ennis strode comfortably to victory in her 800 meter heptathlon finale.
Because, when I woke up this morning, something with my back was slightly awry.
Despite the assistance of painkillers, I have not been able to make the dinner. Or do the washing. Or go to the loo without some assistance in the dropping of the drawers department.
Bugger. So this is what it’s like to be in your 40s!