It’s Hard Out There for a Shrew.

Today I realised three things:
1. All the time I spend at the gym should really be dedicated to increasing my upper body strength,
2. Jesus put me on this earth to be His personal jester and,
3. banditry is damned hard in spite of what the general law abiding population may think.

Now before y’all get all excited and start dialling Crimestoppers to tip them off about that damn tief Shrew who you did always know was a blasted a bandit, (who de hell does call deyself a shrew? And wha de arse is a shrew anyway? Is a kinda fly or something?) allow me to expatiate upon the seeming illegality of my as yet undocumented actions. Today, not only did I have to jump my wall in order to gain access to my property, I also had to jimmy open a window to gain access to my house.

Of course it’s not the first time I’ve found myself in such a situation, but once you pass the age of twenty and sober up, it loses its glamour. For one thing, scaling a wall is no easy matter, but scaling a Trini wall is damn near impossible without the proper training. Sure, from the comfort of your couch the Black and Latino guys hired to play criminals make it look easy, but c’mon man, how can you trust a guy who plays pretend for a living? Besides it’s only when you notice the details of a trini wall do you realise how daunting the task truly is.

The average wall in Triniland has many purposes. Its main use is of course, to designate the boundaries of the property it encloses. It is also used as a landmark (Yeah drive! By de yellow wall dey!), a urinal, a deterrent to unsavoury neighbourhood characters such as pipers, cats and children (hence the toppings of broken bottles, iron spikes and razor wire), and a liming spot. Add to that: unplastered cement bricks, globs of mortar left by untidy masons and the mossy build up of neglect and you have yourself an obstacle course worthy of its own American Gladiators segment.

Some time ago I did a post on my various irrational fears (if I didn’t, I had the intention), one of which was getting the heel of my shoe stuck in a crack in the middle of the Priority Bus Route while an oncoming bus with a clueless driver bears down on me. The first Sunday of 2009, while crossing said Bus Route during my once per year pilgrimage to Mass, the strap which kept my four inch stiletto heeled shoes attached to my foot snapped. Hobbled, although the most apt word, still cannot describe my frenzied movements to the relative safety of the pavement. There are those who will say Satan was putting obstacles in my way, but I know the other dude was responsible for that. So when I was in front of chez Shrew and discovered that the keys I knew I had put in my bag weren’t there, there was no other place to look but up.

I mean, what else could explain the sudden proliferation of activity on the previously empty street? As soon as I placed my hands on my wall in preparation for ‘the hoist’, half the neighbourhood suddenly decided that they had to pass in front of my house at that particular moment. For the record, it’s bloody hard to look innocently interested in perusing the minutiae of cement bonded bricks while a gaggle of children play bicycle tag in the street behind you. Thankfully after about 15 minutes or eight years (I’m not really sure how much time passed), they decided to take their inane game somewhere else. I say thankfully because by then I was dangerously close to becoming permanently cross-eyed.

Finally the street regained its quietude; time to make my move. It was then reality bitch-slapped me – I am freaking heavy. I swear, on my first try, my spindly arms cursed me. The second time they threatened to sue, and on my third and a half attempt (I got stuck halfway over), they announced that they were divorcing me and wanted custody of my torso.

Getting into the house was even worse. Imagine balancing precariously on an unwieldy barrel to pry open a window while a 100lb dog tries to mate with your leg. I don’t remember having all this trouble back in the day. The people who do this stuff willingly for a living are truly not normal.

Someone once told me that I should learn from all my experiences, therefore I must say I have learnt that I am not Houdini and so the next time I find myself in this predicament, I’ll rely on the professionals; I’m going to find a bandit and pay him or her (I’m equal opportunity) to break into my house for me.

Working It.

Few things inspire me like exercise videos. There’s nothing like watching a group of hyperactive super-fit women to make me feel like the lazy slob I am.

I suppose I should try at least some of the exercises shown, but where’s the fun in that? Sure they’re smiling, but I also see all that sweat and straining... There must be some other way to keep fit that doesn’t involve hopping, jumping and Billy Blanks, and until it is found I shall remain on my ass watching the grimacing, perspiring people on TV tell me how fantastic they feel.

As you have probably realised, I’m watching Billy Blanks burn fat with his ‘specially developed for maximum fitness results’ Tae Bo program. At least that’s what the DVD cover says. I’ll take their word for it. I’m too busy enjoying a pint of Chunky Monkey . Hey, I have no problem with my fat. It’s something I can hold on to in times of stress.

Some months ago, I actually joined a gym. A co-worker of mine had an epiphany about her body image and we decided to register for aerobics. In theory it was a great idea. In actuality it sucked ass. A big, fat, flabby, hairy ass. The only other time I remember feeling so ridiculous was when I was a flower girl at an uncle’s wedding. I swear, if I was meant to prance and twist like that, I would have been a goat. The fact that my hand-eye-leg-music-instructor-rest of the class co-ordination can be described as negligible at best, also more than likely influenced my decision to never again return to Jack Warner’s lair.

The sad thing is I actually used to be fit. I had energy, stamina and all that good stuff. Then I hit puberty and things pretty much went downhill from there. Curse you academia focused education system!! I would attempt to re-start a fitness regime, but what’s my motivation? A hot bod? Methinks my body is just fine the way it is and whoever has a problem with that could just stop looking. Besides, I’m no beach bum and the only man in my life right now has four legs, a tail and barks.

Wow, this vid sure is long. It’s been thirty minutes and they’re still going strong. Kudos Billy, kudos! Just looking at those combat punches is causing my heart rate to increase. Wait! Could it be? Have I found the exercise of my dreams? Yes! I feel a bead of sweat forming. I don’t care that these nights have been warm. It’s a bead of fricking sweat dammit. Now if only I can find a way to do my job without actually working…