The personal trainer from hell!


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I can a confession to make. The first of many.

To begin with, I haven’t been to the gym for three years. I gave it up to save money – with a mortgage to pay off I promised to jog outside – who need’s a gym?

Three years later and I’ve gone up three dress sizes.

I’m pear shaped – everything has slumped down to my butt, thighs and stomach. Thank you, NOT, gravity!

So part of my ‘take back my life’ campaign was to join a gym.

Today, was my first session with my personal trainer – Effie. Right now, I’m not feeling a whole lot of love for Effie. She is a lunge nazi: backwards lunge, front lunge, lunges with dumbells, squats, walking across the room with micro lunges then returning with extended lunges.

Walking is hell.

It hurts to sit up or sit down. To walk. To cross a leg over the other. Basically, pain slaps me anytime I move my legs.

However, my silver fox professor and my new life beckon. I want to be at a bar and people look at me. I want my professor to hit on me. I want men to notice me, to ask me out, to date.

Right now, I feel frumpy, boring, and round. I’m constantly conscious of my stomach. As I sit here now writing on my laptop, I can feel the wheel of lubber and it grosses me out. Is that weird? Do most people feel like this?

I know Louise Hay says love your own body, and I shouldn’t feel such revulsion – but it’s a reminder that I let myself go. That I haven’t cared about how my body looks in such a long time. That I haven’t made myself the priority. I’m still mad. Mad at myself, and at him.

I made meals for us, my husband and I, that were taste driven rather than healthy. I made sweet desserts, biscuits, and cakes. I baked extra for him to take to his work colleagues, and for me to nibble on as a midnight snack.

So my stomach, hips, thighs are a reminder of the past, and I want it gone.

But I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to the gym tomorrow. Three years of neglect can’t be fixed overnight, right? Or am I just using the pain as an excuse? Should I go back to the gym tomorrow?


Oh yeah, and I’m divorced


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It’s hard to admit at thirty I’m already divorced. Mostly I refer to my ex-husband as an ex, and sometimes even say ex-boyfriend. I married at twenty-one. Two years after we had met, on the anniversary of meeting.

We at a friend’s birthday party, spent the night talking. We didn’t even kiss. I fell in love with him that night. He was such a gentleman, so caring, so interesting and I could talk to him.

He later told me he was too nervous to kiss me that night. That he wasn’t sure if I liked him or not.

But he asked for my number, we exchanged details. Our first date was to the movies, and pie afterwards. And then outside my apartment, I received my first kiss. Brief, awkward, but enticing.

I went to bed and jostled between sighing ‘it was perfect’ and freaking out and wondering ‘what if I was a bad kisser?’

I didn’t sleep well. I checked my phone every few minutes the next day to see if he would text. If he text it meant he still liked me, despite my in-experience at kissing and dating. If he didn’t… it meant I kissed like a walrus and he wanted nothing to do with me.

But he text in his lunch. And soon we were going steady.

We married young because I believed in the sanctum of marriage, and that you didn’t have sex before marriage. My family was catholic, and I went to an all girl catholic school.

So now at 30, entering the single play-ground I’m woefully inexperienced, and rebellious. I want to do everything I should have been doing at 21. I want to have a one night stand. I want to seduce somebody I like. I want to have fun!

So hang on, the ride is about to start!

The Silver Fox

Silver fox, Sir Hotness, is my tutor for creative writing. Thank the universe. 92% of the class are eighteen, there’s two ‘mature’ mature age student, and myself. So I think my chances are good.

To introduce ourselves, he asked us to say our first names, and then tell the class our favorite authors. By this stage he’d already casually name dropped F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Raymond Carver. So I knew I had to think of someone literary. Most the class had said J.K. Rowling by the time it rolled around to me.

‘My name is Amai, and Ian McEwan is my favorite author’. I announced. I’d just read Enduring Love a few weeks ago – it was brilliant. You don’t know whether to believe the narrator or if he’s a complete psycho. It was riveting.

‘Have you read atonement, Solar or Amsterdam?’ He asked.

My heart plummeted.

‘Ah … no.’ I answered.

‘Oh,’ he looked surprised, ‘what is your favorite.’

I decided to go and buy all the books he’d just named, and all his favorite books straight after class.

Enduring love.’

He smiled at me, a melt-worthy smile. I was surprised to feel the rush of desire. God. It had been so long since I’d felt that towards a man. My ex is the only guy I’ve ever been with. We started dating when I was nineteen, and I’d not been with anyone before him or since he had broken up with me a year ago.

The silver fox said something. I nodded in agreement, too lost in the moment to concentrate on mere words.

Did he know how beautiful he was? He had these dark blue eyes, with long black lashes, and then silver lightly peppered through his dark short hair cut. He wore a checkered shirt, light blue tie and a navy woolen vest. He had an old-school brief-case/satchel. He looked like a slightly scruffy writer from the sixties. Nothing like my ex. Older. Less plastic-fantastic.

Now the question is, should I try to become a femme fatale type and seduce my professor?


First confessions


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I use fiction like sunglasses, to see the world but to keep myself secret from it.

I am a writer.

I’m a student of it actually. I’ve just given up my career to study it full time at University. And I thought if I’m telling all my friends and family that I want to spend the rest of my life writing, well, I’d better get started.

And so the idea for this blog was born.

This is an experiment. A learning curve. Like the last twelve years of my life since finishing high school.  Again, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m determined to do it anyway.

Giving up a fulltime, well paying, successful job at 30 isn’t cool, by the way. Everyone was against it. Especially to study writing.

‘You won’t make any money out of that’.

The most common response. As if going back to University to study law, medicine or something that would make money was okay – but to follow my heart and love of writing was not.

It’s hard to go against the will of the people you love, when you know they want to cocoon you and keep you safe, to do the dangerous thing and make the crazy choice. And the scary thing is that I don’t know if this will make me any happier. What if I become a full-time writing, and the mononoty of writing is as soul-crushing as being a human resource manager?

My mom thinks I’m going through a mid-life crisis after my fiancé broke up with me. And sometimes I find myself biting my nails at 2am, wondering if she’s right? So I’m single. A student. Broke. Overweight. Living in a sharehouse. And this is how I tumbled into my thirties…


The first thing I should say is that I will lie to you.

This whole blog is a creative outlet – turning my truth into readable, delightful, fun fiction.

Everything will be based on my experience, but the details changed to allow me the freedom to tell you everything.

I can hear you asking, why not just be honest? Well, I couldn’t write what I wanted to write about if I knew the people I would be writing about would read it.

I want an escape from the reality of being me. I want to be more than I am. More fun, more adventurous, and more entertaining.

So I make no promises, but I hope you enjoy the ride!