Where to tread?

Being neurotic in Sydney is interesting. I have at least 10 opportunities every day to meet new people. People? Excuse me, I mean women, male applicants may apply elsewhere. Anyway, 10 opportunities... and I pass every single one of them by with a blank, indifferent stare. And why? Because who wants to be that crazy guy who makes eye contact with people on the street?

It's second person time... You're walking along, minding your business, thinking about that chicken that needs cooking, or that time you stuck your finger in a blender and then BAM! Someone is looking at you. Into your eyes so it catches your attention. You look up, ready to greet some old mate you've bumped into on the street, but then... nothing... a complete stranger is looking you in the eye wearing a funny grin. It is at this point that you start shaking your head to refuse whatever it is they're selling. Or maybe you turn into a wolf and tear their fucking throat out for challenging your authority. Yeah... do that.

So, instead of talking to people on the street, I'll be that awkward looking guy who you can feel staring at you, while somehow, never quite actually looking at you. I really do have this down to an art-form. Yesterday I was standing at the bus stop with a bored expression and a thousand yard stare across the street, the girl standing next to me did a double-take twice to check my eyes and I almost wet myself. It must be pre-tty creepy.

So other options? Meeting people at the pub... This is next to impossible. Pubs are for hanging out with your mates. If a mate introduces you to someone then all to the good. But otherwise people just don't want to know. And I understand this, were I at a pub with friends and some dude tried to latch onto us we'd probably bar him faster than Kan-tong cooking (okay, maybe not that fast) unless he was the perfect blend of humble enthusiasm, style and chemistry. And people like that do not talk to people like us.

Clubbing? People don't meet clubbing. Not the people I want to meet anyway.

This leaves sport, dancing, cooking classes, random recreational activities (eg. parkour or orienteering) or book clubs...

I'll let you know how they turn out.

Deliverance

I just got back from the gym.

Let that sink in for a second.

It is a completely mundane sentence describing a completely mundane event... But to my ears it is sweet, sweet music.

Don't get me wrong. I hate the gym. It is exercise devoid of any purpose other than aesthetics. There is no fun to be had there. It smells of old sweat, new farts and ever-present armpits. Plus the people are all fitter than me, and those that aren't are stronger. And I'm weak and scrawny, where I'm not round and bouncy... and there are mirrors everywhere! In short... it rates slightly higher that an orange-juice enema on my personal list of fun things to do.

So why am I so pissed off that I haven't been able to go for the last 6 months?

Because the afterglow is awesome. Being there is like finger-nails screeching down the black-board of my soul. But afterwards I feel like I've done something. Something worthwhile. For my entire teens I ignored my body. I did what I wanted (ie. nothing), ate what I wanted (ie. crap) and was oblivious to the fact that there even were consequences. "I'll get fit eventually" was an often coined thought. Well, my friends, "eventually" arrived some time last year and I was playing sport, gyming regularly, eating well, losing weight... then BAM... "You have Ankylosing Spondylitis" says the good Doctor.

That, for those of you who don't know (I didn't), is this cool kind of arthritis that slowly fuses the bones in your spine together over a period of about 30 years until you are eventually walking around with a bamboo pole in your back. Yeah, I was pretty excited too. Early stages manifest themselves in back stiffness, massive loss of sleep and basically a whole butt-load of pain. I was considered, and I quote, "a textbook case". Mmm promising... Traditionally the condition has been treated with steadily stronger anti-inflammatory drugs, and this has met a limited degree of success. I have been on some pretty heavy ones for about 6 months and while they actually let me sleep, I still couldn't get out of bed without some serious elbow leverage.

But then an Angel, in the form of my Rheumatologist Professor Patrick McNeil, said unto me:

No, that is not the way.
We shall put you on this new improved drug
that has only just come out and is really good.
You'll need to fill out all these forms
and do exercises for 3 months
and do all this other nonsense.
But persevere, have faith,
and your time will come

And I did all of these things and lo, a prescription arrived. And Humira was its name.

6 months of pain. Starting in my back. Moving to my shoulder and then my neck. No sleep. No mobility.

How long did it take to fix this?

2 DAYS!


So now I'm going to get fit again and try Parkour... and possibly break myself all over again.
But if I don't try now I may never get another chance. And I know that I will try everything I can while I have a body that works.

Sometimes, as clichéd as it sounds, you really don't know what you have until it's gone. So I suggest you go out and try something that you have been meaning to. I'll see you there... unless it's at the bloody gym.