I slam the door to the ballet studio, late as ever. I am in leg warmers, woolly top, woolly shorts.
It is sub-tropical in the glass studio. The sunlight is skimming across the sprung floor, giving the dancers’ bodies an amber tint as they stretch on the bars.
“Hello stranger,” V says, smiling at me.
“Hello!” I say, grabbing a place at the barre and stripping off my layers.
“Long time no see?” she says, hoisting her leg on the barre and leaning over it.
I throw my hands into the air as the music starts. “Exam hell. Relationshipness,” I say. “We’ll talk later,” I say as I arrange my body into first position and attempt to copy the exercise.
“Sounds hellish,” my teacher’s voice says behind me. He looks me up and down as I plié. “It’s done your figure wonders though. Really slimmed you down.”
You would only ever hear this in a ballet class.
One of the great rewards of flying solo. You just need to sort out the inflight refuelling thing.
I have somehow managed to lose 2 inches off my hips and 1 inch off my tum.
I have not lost a single pound.
Do you think it’s the angst of my fake relationship?!
Oh dear, how have I not paid a compliment on your new design yet?
It is now apparently impossible for me to lose weight, thanks to my synthetically thyroid substitute. Thus, although CB’s absence and job stress have sort of put me off food, I am still unable to fit into the nice NEXT pants I purchased last year.
Also, the tights (although I realize that you will not see this as a significant loss — and, after reviewing that one picture, I think I agree with you).
Wow, nice improper use of an adjective there. This is why I should not blog after 0100 my time.