I am John's Whacked-out Body.
Tomorrow, I am playing netball.
Shut up you at the back choking out *Wuss!* while imagining dainty girls in short skirts skipping merrily to catch a ball which will then render them immobile until they lob it gently into the air.
There will be no short skirts. I am not dainty, nor am I capable of skipping merrily, unless by merrily one means “in imitation of a ballet de corps consisting of African elephants”.
I have also not made my body move so much since the days of compulsory sports at A Level, where, in almost concussing another girl (“She was only out for 10 seconds, and she recovered her faculties completely the next day, Min!") I was banished from the sports field, to spend my exile in the comfort of my own bed. Oh cruel, cruel fate!
So we had a training session last Wednesday. For two hours.
My body has yet to recover from the shock.
At the training session….
Right leg to left leg: Ow, ow, ow!!! What’s with all this movement?!! Are we late for CSI again?
Brain: It’s called running you flabby lazy-assed morons. I told you that moving between the bed and the computer chair wasn’t enough exercise, but does anyone listen to me? NoOOoo, I’m just the mass of largely unused cells staying at the top, what do I know?
Ass: What, what? Who’re you calling lazy, bitch? Here I am working myself off to look like J-Lo’s phaihne floatation device, and you call me lazy? Just you wait, I just wrote to Channel Five asking for a CSI marathon- soon as that happens, she’s gonna be stuck on that couch inhaling nachos and dip, and I’m gonna be the biggest momma in town!
Stomach: Nachooooos…..MmmMMmm
Right arm : ARGHhHhh…what’s she doing??!! Why’s she making us stretch so much? Is she trying to get at the nachos on the top shelf without climbing on the chair again? ArghhhhGhhHGhh!
Fingers: Haha suckas! When we said we needed more exercise than just clicking the remote control, you laughed at us. When we bribed the Brain to make her addicted to the computer so she’d start moving us all over those keyboards you said we were wasting our damn time. Yay keyboards!!! Muahahaha to the rest of you! Feel the wrath of the Exercise Gods!
Brain: (To fingers, Joey Tribiani style) Heya ladies, how *you* doin’?
She’s playing netball, people. You know, the thing where she goes crazy and starts jumping on top of people just so she can get the ball? *Sigh* I never shoulda made the Eyes watch rugby.
Legs: Argh!!!! Netball!!! Are you making her think it’s still 1992 again, you idiot?!
Mammary glands: Whatcha talking about? It is still 1992! Why do you think we’re still this size? We’re 12, goddamnit!
Arms to legs: Hey hey guys, we just thought of something- Remember Lactic Acid? The last time she moved around this much, we summoned the great Cramp goddess, and she swamped us with so much Lactic Acid that this girl vowed never to move so much, ever, unless it was for a really good reason, like a Coffeebean closing down sale or something.
Uterus: Waaaitaminute! No one summons the great Cramp goddess but ME. And it ain’t time yet, cos the Massive Wave of Violent Mood Swings have yet to pay me a visit, plus I’m not feeling sufficiently bitchy to make her feel stupid, ugly and a general waste of oxygen yet.
Tear ducts: Whatddyamean, those Mood Swings haven’t come yet, why’ve we been working overtime all this month, then? Damnit Brain, are you getting your wires crossed again?
Brain: Hey, I get all my signals from the Heart down there.
Heart: * Puff* Don’t talk to me now, you fools! Can’t you see I’m *puff* pumping like hell here?!!
Hormones: (Sniggering evilly in the background) Teeheehee... shh don't tell anyone, but we're having a swing-out Par-Tay back here...Wheeeeee! (Estrogen and Progesteron proceed to do the trampoline dance)
Legs: I can’t take this anymore, I’m calling the Cramp chick.
Arms: I think we should get everyone else on the action. Come on people, do the chant!
Spinal chord: Count me in. You guys know you’re not supposed to make a move without me.
Arms, legs, spinal chord, neck, butt cheeks, palms of hands, arches of feet and every single available joint and muscle in Nads’ body: (Chanting) Oooo Great Cramp goddess, we beseech you for your flood of Lactic Acid. Grant us pain to end all future pains.
Me, the next morning, trying to get up from bed: Ow…ow….ow…ow….OWWWWW.
All this was revealed to me in a dream by my Subconscious, who still loves me, in her own twisted way.
And my body parts do actually talk in a weird American-like accent. It's just one other way to revolt against Me.
So I'm punishing my Body again today. With a 3-hour practice session.
Take that, Bitches!
nads went at 11:20