Musings from Whangamata

Yes, there is a funny side to every story.  And I seem to be laughing at myself a lot lately.

After berating myself for the last blog being a big moan about having to spend time in my friend’s house at Whangamata, I decided yesterday that I instead of moaning and sulking I should do something positive about the next couple of days.

So I did.  And this morning have emerged from the bed and can barely walk with the muscle soreness reminding me of what a stupid person I can be.

Then I laughed out loud at myself.

I am a twit.  The last week is a perfect example of twit-life.

Twit incidence 1:

For the first 5 days of my being down in this Coromandel resort town I spent almost 3 of them either driving back to Auckland or back to Whangamata.

That was another comical situation.

My friend’s asked I travel down last Tuesday to spend time with them and give me the opportunity to learn the ins and outs of my temporary, full time role. I had some problems with that so confess to telling a slight white non-truth so that I could travel down the following day, on the Wednesday.  It wasn’t really a non-truth, there was truth to it – but I really did not want to go down Tuesday.  Besides, they were not driving up to Auckland Airport until Thursday morning for their mid-day flight so figured that being there Wednesday would give me ample time to ‘learn the ropes’ of cat minding.  I do own 2 cats and have had a cat all my life, so figured it wouldn’t take too much to learn the host cat idiosyncrasies.

Problem was , from my personal perspective – I had paid an entry fee for a swim race on the Thursday night and as I would already be forfeiting another race fee for a swim I would miss out on due to being away, I decided I wanted travel back to Auckland for the Thursday evening 2 kilometre swim.  Plus, most of my coaching crew were participating and I do like to be there to watch, see and fathom how they all are doing.

So travelled down Wednesday, imbibed with them Wednesday night – was relieved to find they were leaving town to head to the airport at 7.30 the next morning – somewhat cautious to learn their flight wasn’t till early afternoon, not midday – and was shown and taught all the routines and rituals of cat sitting and garden watering.

Now, these friends are totally in love with their cats.  The cats are mere moggies and no doubt give their owners much to love them for.  Cuddles, leg rubs, purrs, dead birds and clumps of molting fur all over the house.  Their owners’ concerns about leaving their loved pussies for an 8 day period were, literally, OTT – but can’t be cynical or knock it as even I know how much one comes to love a pet and these two have little family left which makes being helicopter pussy owners all the more emotionally important to them.

But, that did mean it would probably not be a good idea to tell the travelling ones that their temporary, full-time cat sitter was actually going to be a bit of a part-timer as she intended to be hoofing it back to Auckland at her earliest possible chance.  Her concept was – cats fed – doors locked – Auckland here I come.

That was the plan.  Then maybe return that evening – or, as friends kept telling me – stay in Auckland overnight, go home in the morning, just leave a load of extra cat food out – they’ll survive a night without you.  After all, they’re just cats!

Imm… me thought, staying overnight would stretch my guilt too much; I would return after the swim!

But travelling up to Auckland was going to be a bit of a scheme working situation – as I did not want to fess up to the friends about leaving their moggies for the day I did not want them to learn I had done so by nonchalantly flying by them in my big bus somewhere along the Hauraki Plains or the Southern Motorway.  Therefore I would have to leave my departure to be as late as possible so as not to have them see me whiz past then their panicking and u-turning back to base camp, holiday and ash spreading deterred to a later date.

So I left at 1pm.  Cats would be alone for only 10 or so hours.  They could survive.

Back into Auckland with just enough time to call into home, check my own cats, check my emails and head to race start.

Among emails – a request – could I possible work (for $’s) the next day for a few hours.

Now $’s mean a great deal to me at this present time so any opportunity to earn some never is turned down for fear of not being asked again.  Of course I can, says I in my return email.  Happy to do.

Errr… that means staying in Auckland overnight, that means moggies will be home alone, for nearly 28 or 29 hours.  Or perhaps 30!  Oh dear.  Would they survive?  Had I left ample food?  What would happen if the house burnt down overnight?  What would I do?  Would moggies run away?  …..  ah… bull doze those thoughts out of the mind.  I knew there was far too much food left so it wouldn’t be a problem.

Thus, I swam, I went home, I rose next morning, I worked, I drove straight back to Whangamata.

House not burnt down. Cats not to be seen.  Food not touched.  Not one bit.

Panic. 

But as I do in such panic situations – I poured a wine and figured, “He aha!” Little I can do at this point in time.  Either cats have run away, which I will deal with tomorrow, or they are dead from starvation, which I will deal with tomorrow.

Left the moggie biscuits where they were and went to bed.  Rose in the morning, every biscuit was gone.  Either we have a Whangamata Cat Biscuit Burglar, or the cats have come in overnight and eaten the things. 

Later that day – the cats appeared – off at the far end of the garden, but they appeared.  So I knew they were alive, not run away and whether it was them who ate the biscuits overnight or not would be a mystery I did not have to concern myself about.

Twit Incident 2

Next day I decided I would go for a run around the lovely environs of this holiday resort.  Went to the vehicle to get my running shoes.  No shoes.  I had not packed them.  I had packed a full compliment of wet suit swim gear and accompaniments, a full compliment of cycle gear (plus 2 bikes), a whole set of gym gear, a full compliment of running gear – except the shoes.

Imm …  I really did want to go for an explore of this place I had to be at  .. and wanted to do all the walkways, paths and tracks I had been told about.  So I ran, or walked really, for 2 hours in an old pair of William’s never-been-worn-since-1993 running shoes I found in the garden.

I have a sore foot now – many days later.  What a twit.

Twit Incident 3

I drove back up to Auckland on Sunday so that I could do a 70+ kilometre ride with the cycle club.  Cycling on these main roads in and out of Whangamata did not inspire me – Tony and I had cycled around here a number of times some 15 to 20 years ago, but the traffic then was somewhat more docile than the traffic in and out of here nowadays.  It did not appeal.  However cycling back to Clevedon for my Sunday ride did.

Thus another tank of gas for my vehicle, which in twit terms meant that the $’s I had earned on the Friday had merely covered the cost of the diesel for my many journeys back and forth to Auckland.

There was a twit incident that followed the cycle ride – but that’s another story for the inner circle only.

Twit Incident 4

So Monday I figured I’d actually get to the local gym and do a workout.  I had noted they had Yoga classes too, but one had to prebook to be in this class.  When arriving at the gym at 6am Monday morning I enquired if there was a space for me in the 7am Yoga class and was pleased there was so booked, paid then continued into the gym for my own weights work out.  No problem there.  Most gyms have the weights and machines I require and this one was fairly well set up.  Heaved a few big ones for me, pushed a few leg presses, planked a few fronts, sides and back.  Time for a lovely gentle Yoga session.

The room, which was actually an old garage, was dark, very dark.  I knew it was not a hot Yoga session, but I didn’t figure it would be a darkness Yoga session.  And incense, the strong smell of incense.

I felt around the walls of the room for anything that resembled a Yoga mat and heard a voice arising from somewhere in the floor space in the darkness saying, “Mats are already on the floor.  Find one and quietly go into your own space.”

I would go into my own space, if I could see it!  And if there is one voice on the floor in her space, where were the others?  Would I trip over them? Filling their spaces?  I couldn’t see a thing, my eyes had yet to adjust to the darkness.  Stood for a few moments, squinting, squinting tightly and still could see little.  Daren’t move.  So slid to my hands and knees and with the drop in altitude the eyes began to finely adjust; crawled toward a corner where my crawling hands felt a Yoga mat.  Gently I ran my hands over the mat to see if there was a body already in their own space on this space.  There wasn’t. Phew.

I had my mat, now all I needed was to go into my space.  Lay myself out on my back, arms rested by side as one does in Yoga resting position, breathed a quiet breath and began to “go into my own space”.  Just then a noise, a humming noise ….   Uuummmmmmmmmmmmm ….   Eyes darted in the darkness.  Another uuuummmmmmmmmmmmmm.  Oh dear, this was going to be an Ummmmm Yoga class – oh no, I hate these classes – uummmmming is like singing to me, I just can’t find the right note.  In other uuummming classes I found the moment I tried to uuummmm my octave was so out of range of the others that the other ummies would half open a closed eye and stare.   This is such an unsettling things, lots of humans with one eye closed and the other half open, uuummming away while staring at you from their slitty, open eyes.  Thus every time I ever ended up in an uummmm class I would, as I do when singing, just mouth the uuummmm.   Actually, I have long since figured it was supposed to be a Hhhooouuummmm, rather than a mere uuummmm – but could never get the Hhhh oooo bit – so mouthed it.  Lip syncing they call it, don’t they?

At this point I was thinking how could I slide out of this room without interrupting everyone’s hhhooouuummms?, when a match was struck and a candle lit, another candle and a few more candles.  Ahhhh from me … light on the situation.  I turned and looked, there were only two others in the room.  Me, the other who had been in her own space when I had entered, and the instructor who was still hhhhoooouuuuummmming while lighting the candles.

Argh, methoughts.  There’s only one other in the class which makes my slipping out a bit awkward.

Oh well, I’m here now, may as well keep lip syncing and lie back, find my space and enjoy the relaxation, of which I know I don’t do enough of.  Big sigh, rested back, mouthed my hhoouumss and resigned myself to another funny experience.

And then it started.  The class.  It was one of those classes.  The ones with ropes, and cords, and blocks, and squares, and rings and all other forms of paraphernalia that one is sure had been purchased at the local garage sale at the local S&M outlet.

I was twisted, turned, pulled, stretched, knotted, lunged, reached, pelvic tilted, pelvic lifted, pelvic thrusted, pelvic dropped and then hhhhoooouuummmm some more. 

I breathed in deeply as the instructor instructed and lifted every rib, every lung cell until I thought I was going to pop like a balloon, held my breath until I was sure I had to explode, then gushed it all out in an instant when supposingly taking longer to let it out than in.  That’s all very well but some of us were going to die if we didn't.

At one stage I reached for my watch to press the light button to find out how much longer I had to endure this pain for.  The heart sank, it was only 7.30, I had 30 more minutes of this pain and hhhoouumming to endure.  I reached for the light on the watch ages later, it had only progressed 3 minutes.

An hour and a half later I emerged from the darkness, on all fours…  barely able to lift one arm in front of the other as I crawled to my gym bag and escape out the door.  My spine had been so twisted that I am sure I was permanently contorted to face forward while the body faced backward.  The perspiration had soaked through what little clothing I had and was leaving drip marks every time I moved one hand or knee forward. 

I crawled to the car.  The car limped with me in sympathy to our place of residence.  Came in, kicked the cats and flopped down on the couch, star fish like.  I woke 3 hours later.

Twit Incident No 5

Passed on the gym the next day.   Passed on a run too.  Foot still sore. 

Thought I’d be a good friend and tidy up the very, very, very, very overgrown and messy garden.  Well, not all of it – as there was far too much of it to do.  But one friend had wisely said, “Just tidy the bits they will first see when they arrive home.” That was a good idea, methought. 

Began reasonably early.  Pottered an hour or so.  Took a break to the local shops, for internet café and then a coffee stop.  Back home to the garden.

Rather enjoyable really.  Took a few breaks for phone calls, emails and fun messaging.  Returned to the gardening.

At 9 pm last night, I walked inside and stepped into the shower, clothes and all, including footwear.  I was covered from head to toe in dirt; and mosquito bites.

That shower was glorious.  Took around 30 minutes to scrub all the filth off my body, my clothes and my shoes and then the shower.  Then got dinner.  Fell asleep on the couch, again.  Woke this morning.  Rolled over to get up …  ouch.  Tried to stand up.  Could not get the momentum.  My body resisted.  It would not rise to standing position.  Sort of rolled myself over the couch so that I could push my body up backwards to standing position.  Ouch.  Was standing.  Went to take a step.  Ooww.  Ouch.  Everything hurts.  Everything.  Not just my sore foot.  Everything. 

And that's where my story today started. I can barely walk this morning.

Seems the gardening was worse for me than the dark Yoga.  Or maybe both compounded.  And here I sit.  Immobile.  I have to get up.  I have 15 big bags of garden waste to load into my vehicle and take to the dump today.

And then I think.  What a twit.  I did the gardening because my friends have been semi-infirm for the past few years.  

He has a bad back.  She’s had breast cancer and a breast removal.  She’s had a couple of minor strokes.  He’s had gall stones and kidney infections. And ongoing other things.  Both have had emergency ambulance rides to Thames and Hamilton hospitals.  Therefore the lovely, old, rambling garden they once had has now become not lovely, but overgrown, messy and such a major fix it job that it would take an army and several dump bins to clear. But despite that they have done well and maintained small patches here and there among the morass of wandering dew, oxalis, paspalym  and twitch grasses.  Flowers are blooming and veges surviving. 

I realise I am a twit because they will come home tomorrow and either  

a) not notice a thing,   

b) notice and be terribly upset because they liked it the way it was,  

c) notice and be upset because I have embarrassed them about their inability to maintain it, 

or, optimistically maybe even  

d) notice and be happy

What a twit.  After all, what are my chances they will opt for d)?  One in four I guess.   I’ll let you know.