day 8
“You must find your balance in your ass”
Looking up at the pretty Italian lady whose mouth these words of wisdom had fallen out of: my legs splayed, flat on my back, the basketball flood lights shining into my eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder if I might have made a mistake.
As someone who is notoriously uncoordinated (#dyspraxics unite), I’d recently decided to wheel out my rollerblades. They’d stayed firmly in their box (bar a couple of attempts since my birthday two years ago) and were now on their first outing. Their pink and black/ converse devil may care attitude had somehow managed to attract a group of very experienced skaters in the park, who were now surrounding me, looking mildly like they’d stumbled on a large but sweet looking animal they’d accidentally knocked over on the road.
Maria, as I came to know her, gave me this advice after I’d absolutely decked it with epic flair. A far cry from the fluid dance like grace of Maria in her baby pink rollerblades, who seemed to effortlessly find balance in her ass. This technique basically involves squatting the whole time, whilst also attempting to move forwards, stable but in motion. Natural it ain’t.
My body has really started to just become something that does things this week. I woke up one morning and HAD to go on a run. I’ve never HAD to do any form of physical activity, but it was like I had all this energy zapping around me that I had to expend or I’d spend the rest of the working day bouncing up and down on my chair and having to have regular dance breaks. I’m normally a casual jogger, but that morning I ran, and actually ran. Honestly, it felt good to just make my body feel something. Maybe I’ll get addicted to exercise?? Just kidding.
My body is becoming less and less something that I think about, or view as something that’s up for discussion, validation. It’s just something that does things. And even though a part of me misses how it feels when someone else gives me that look, and you feel all of a sudden like they’re seconds from touching you and you’re about to tip over into them… it’s also a bit of a relief. I run. I walk. I eat. And I rollerskate (badly). I just do and I don’t think about how I look when it’s happening. It’s the closest I think I’ll come to lying on my tummy, flat on the trampoline in the heat of the midday sun when I was 6, tiny squares building the frame of my vision, looking down at the luscious blades of grass below. Sun in my lungs, legs out, short shorts on to maximise lethal “double bounce” potential, rubbing sweat and sunscreen out of my eyes. Totally unselfconscious in the “bodiliness” of my body.
Maybe it’s psychosomatic, but there’s certainly a feeling that I’m more attuned to my body lately, like it’s more physically sensitive. I woke up early this morning, to go for a bike ride (translated - to pick up pastries) and felt like I was in a goddamn musical. Sun streaming down, coffee shops opening up, it was like London was taking a deep breath in and getting excited about being alive again. Not even my white jeans getting caught in the spokes of my wheels could shatter the illusion and kill my high.
even though a part of me misses how it feels when someone else gives me that look, and you feel all of a sudden like they’re seconds from touching you and you’re about to tip over into them… it’s also a bit of a relief.
I arrived at another favourite bakery (honestly, if you sneeze in my area, you’ll land on somewhere doughy). I chatted to the barista – beard. tattoos, big bear energy – about the specials for the day. A tart rhubarb, pistachio number sliced across a square pastry slice, sounded involved but interesting. I considered out loud whether or not to get two… one for “my friend” and one for me (i.e. one for breakfast and one for lunch). He said he’d been experimenting with something in the back, “would I like to see?? My vision slowed and plumes of flour temporarily burst forth in a halo around his face. Was this the opening to an erotic rom com? Maybe. My palms were sweaty in anticipation of god knows WHAT. He leant down behind the counter and then proceeded to say the sweetest, most sensual words known to (wo)man, that he’d rustled up a “potato, cheese pastry” and then I think I might have actually been dead for 30 seconds. A POTATO PASTRY. Fuck off and marry me. If you’ve ever wondered, hm, how could potatoes POSSIBLY be any better?? Well, you add them to mother ducking pastry and cheese, that’s how. He gave it to me on the house (maybe he could sense my heart rate and thought I was going to have a fit or something??).
the sweetest, most sensual words known to (wo)man… a “potato, cheese pastry” and then I think I might have actually been dead for 30 seconds. A POTATO PASTRY. Fuck off and marry me.
When it came time for lunch, it was virtually a ceremony. The potato pastry deserved it. Oven on. Laptop away. Group of violinists assembled. Balcony door open. Mildly burnt the pastry, but we move on. God, SORRY but potato pastry!! Just feel that out in your mouth for a second. I’m still not over it. Sat down, fiddled with the salad, I was just toying with the potato pastry’s feelings, eyeing it up. Cut it down the middle. Once I’d cut it in half, the pastry flakes gave in and the tension was finally broken. The thin layers of sliced baby potato, charred rosemary, pools of cheesy goodness and buttery flicks of pastry wafted into my nose. After my first bite I had a full on goosebump ridden sensory breakdown.
Something which my friends often mock me for. The “goosebump” test is what I call it. Anything good. Good food, a beautiful song, a good kiss, even a nice moment of sweet human connection after the laughter of a shared joke has died down, I get goosebumps, going up my back, along my arms and my hairs stand on end. Simple, uncomplicated pleasure.
I’ve decided that giving myself more of an ass is the way to find balance in it. Maria, I hope you approve. So I’ll be taking 3 of the cheesey potato pastries please. Happy fricking weekend babes.