I see myself as the latest, agile Lara Croft/Trinity/Catwoman/The Bride*, who could floor Mr Stranger-Danger in a couple of backflips and with a nicely placed (think Karate Kid), meditated karate chop here and there.
In my mind’s eye.
In my head I am young. I am fit. I am supple. And I am bendy. Apparently in all different directions.
And that, despite never having been a contortionist at any point in my lifetime. Or having stepped a leather slipper through the ballet class door or even attempted kung fu.
Although, to be fair, I did give judo more than a fair shot. I heaved myself all the way to a yellow belt. Then I promptly dislocated my left arm while running up the little hill between my home and the car park. I’d been skipping, you see. And I needed to tidy my rope into the outhouse before being allowed to join my parents in the car.
Tidiness was never my strong point.
Anyway, I began my ascent up the hill and tripped over my own silly foot.
After months of rehearsing for such falls, I obeyed my teacher (actually my aunt) and threw my stick-girl body at the ground.
Somehow, strangely, something went wrong and my arm popped right out of its socket.
I screamed with all my might and surrounding neighbours came out of their houses to vomit at the spectacle.
My mum took on a ghostly appearance as I repeatedly yelled, “I broke my arm! I broke my arm!” (Just in case someone in a neighbouring suburb hadn’t heard me).
The nurses at the hospital exhibited me proudly. Workers appeared from ward after ward to look at my now extraordinarily long arm.
The fabulous news is: it got me out of judo class. Forever.
Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes yoga. I attempted yoga. But unbelievably, dodgy knees and yoga don’t, well, harmonise.
I’m panicking slightly.
And it may well be that I never ever reach my full potential.
*Delete as you feel appropriate
Driving my five-year old (who’s soon to be six and so excited about that fact, that she’s telling the dental receptionist, her husband, the postman and his dog, the delivery man, the woman at the bakers and any other random stranger she comes into contact with) to her ballet class this evening she asked me about the story I had been writing today.
As usual, she said, “I know that one!”
My stories are all known and constantly reiterated by my children. At times wrongly.Which, I can tell you, can lead to even more embarrassment than the events themselves actually had done.
We talked a little of fantasising and fantasies that could never become a reality.
Then she decided to inform me that she has a lot of fantasies and I could have some of them.
That pricked my interest, I can tell you.
But after further questioning she “couldn’t quite remember” any of her own envisionings.
She then went on to offer to teach me judo, having never been to a single judo class in her short life (though who knows what’s happened in her daydreams?)
Allegedly, I have to fall on my hands and my knees next time.
So, now I know.