Christmas. Not the most pleasant time of the year once you
a) don't believe in baby Jesus being the Christ to redeem all mankind
b) are broke, even your VISA maxed out and rendered unusable and therefore unable to show your nearest and dearest your appreciation for all their unfaltering support in a way they understand- through expensive gifts
c) dwelling in all your misery are physically (and financially and emotionally) unable to get into the festive spirits even though everyone around you is.
Well, technically the last bit isn't entirely true. Christmas might (thank the Lord) only come once a year, but Christmas parties on the other hand come along like, 4 times a week, so I have been necking serious quantities of spirits. Which, no doubt, has something to do with the b) as well.
Last night I attended the VIP invitation only- Christmas party of my favourite sports bar. Part of the moderated and structured fun that was scheduled for the evening ( unlimited free booze is apparently sooo last, pre-global recession- season) was a game called Crucifix. And I, always game for blasphemy, took part.
The game consists of holding a 1 litre pint, filled to the brim in each hand and holding arms out straight for as long as you can (crucifixion position, geddit?). I didn't make it to the final. My opponent did. She, a heavily built girl in sequins (how can something that drag queeney look so butch?) , employed some psyching techniques normally used pre-game by boxers. You know, those sporting world super heros who make their living out having what ever is left of their brains whacked to mash?
The game consists of holding a 1 litre pint, filled to the brim in each hand and holding arms out straight for as long as you can (crucifixion position, geddit?). I didn't make it to the final. My opponent did. She, a heavily built girl in sequins (how can something that drag queeney look so butch?) , employed some psyching techniques normally used pre-game by boxers. You know, those sporting world super heros who make their living out having what ever is left of their brains whacked to mash?
I held on for as long as I could. And wore her out to some extent as come final, she came second. So, today, instead of the usual sore head, I have sore arms. This is what people must feel like when they work out. You know, like, do that infamous Pilates (regular readers know this blog is every bit as much about me trying to sort out this relationship with The Man as it is about my increasingly elaborate attempts to avoid Pilates). Perhaps I really should give it a go...?
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