Robyn’s Nest

I usually embrace sporting opportunities, be it a game of netball, a run (or rather fast walk) around the park or some whacky new fitness class for a giggle. But there’s a time and a place for sport and I’m concerned that tomorrow morning won’t be it.

Tonight I’m hitting Brum for a girly night out with one of my bestest chums - having managed to shake off her new boyfriend. Three’s a crowd and all that plus I couldn’t find my gooseberry costume anywhere.

So, it’ll be just the two of us and if previous nights out are anything to go by, tonight could get messy. But my other friend is expecting me to sweat is out at a midday fitness class in Leicester tomorrow, followed by a session in the gym. And there’s nothing wrong with that, I’d usually lap it up. But with a hangover? With serious sleep deprivation? With severe dehydration? I sense I may be a tad grumpy come lunch time.

I imagine tomorrow morning going something like this:

• Wake up to sound of very loud noise and wonder where the hell I am and what that beeping noise is (alarm clock)
• Wipe the eye bogies from my face and peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth
• Try and sit up without feeling sick
• Trip over mate on way to the toilet and then just sit there for ages
• Head to the kitchen, stub my toe on an empty wine bottle and tread on discarded and dried up contact lens, which now resembles a shard of glass
• Search for liquid refreshment - no Lucozade, only pinot grigio, so plump for warm tap water instead
• Attempt to pull on my trackies and hoodie and look like an athlete, no time for shower
• Scrape hair off face and tie in an off-centre ponytail
• Recycle last night’s eye make-up and grab car keys
• Hit the motorway, feeling not all that in control of the car
• Pick up friend and get comments like “you look like shite”
• Make it to exercise class and crave Nurofen for thumping headache
• Fail to sweat because body is trying to hang on to every bead of moisture, as dehydration does its worst
• Snap at friend who’s super alert after staying in last night
• Drown myself in the swimming pool - anything to stop the pain
• Get rescued by fit lifeguard but lose my bikini bottoms in the process
• Die of embarrassment as fit lifeguard hands his phone number to my mate

Okay, so maybe I’m being a bit negative and over dramatic but I think a session in the gym tomorrow - no matter how much I want to do it at the moment - is a tad ambitious after a night on the tiles.

On Saturday I indulged in a day of utter girlyness. The day began like any other - rubbing the sleep from my eyes and wishing it wasn’t time to get up yet - and ended around a dinner table, supping wine (lemondade for me, I was driving) and lots of laughter.

The reason for the gathering is ‘cos my mate Bloater (her name’s Laura but that’s what I call her, long story) is getting married and I have the honour of being one of her four bridesmaids.

On Saturday the five of us (plus a straggler who just loves all things wedding) went to a shop called Fairytale Dreams (barf!) to see Bloater in her wedding dress. Ah, she looks so pretty and all grown up. Even though she’s three years younger than me.

Then we headed off for the most important part of the day - the bridesmaid dress hunt. We trekked to Walsall ( God awful place) and found haven in the bridal shop where, amazingly, the four of us found dresses we liked - and Bloater loves them too.

Now, the four of us are all different shapes and sizes - two tall-ies, two shorties, two olive-skinned, two a little more pasty, bla bla bla. Yet, we managed to find dresses (which came in two different styles, straps or no straps) to suit us all. We’re taking two of each style and the dress woman practically had to pull them off us before we left. Jeans just don’t compare when you’re floating around in a pretty frock.

The only bit I didn’t like was the measuring. The nice lady made comments like “you’re in complete proportion” and “haven’t you got a tiny waist” to the others. Resounding silence when she came to me and I have the biggest hips of the lot - I sneaked a peak at her scribblings. Does that make me the fat bridesmaid? No, it’s all muscle anyway and I am the tallest! And I managed get in the size 12 and do the zip up all the way to the top, so I’m happy.

After a gossip over a tiramisu latte (heavenly) we straightened our hair, topped up the lip gloss and headed to a posh pub for grub where we scoffed, sipped and nattered the night away.

We covered the usual girly topics - the day of the wedding, the hen night, boyfriends, men’s rude parts and the joys of dating.

And, no pre-wedding gathering would be complete without a mention of the bride’s new surname - she’s going to be Mrs Hoare! Laura Hoare! It’s the source of much amusement. I reckon she should pronounce it Hoe-are-ay, kinda like Mrs Bucket/Bouquet. Her hubby to be is very good  humoured about the whole thing. He answers the home phone: “Hello, Hoare house.” Classic.

 For more wedding chat see http://ckrandom.wordpress.com/2007/11/26/alls-well-in-wedding-la-la-land/