Or, “Jiu Jitsu; a Most Unexpected Romance”.
Anyone who’s read anything I’ve ever written here or at parismarisamadonna will by now have gleaned a couple of core facts about me,#bridgetbythebridge.
You’ll know that I work really, really hard, all of the time, earning all the money that keeps me (and a couple of others) fed, watered, clothed and regularly flying south to visit the little people. You will know that work, and being excellent at it, has been the unique focus of my life since forever, that my entire sense of self-worth hinges on how well I am doing in my job, how much my boss values me and whether or not I’m getting a promotion. You’ll know that my job is my life.
You will also know that I am more than just a little bit opinionated. I’ve got something to say about pretty much everything and I don’t mind how loudly or how aggressively I say it. You’ll know that when I’m ‘off on one’ I use big words I look up on the online thesaurus almost as often as I swear like a sailor; I fuck and shit and piss and c*nt as easily as I pontificate, iterate and capitulate. I love to use all the words, I love to emote and express, I love that when I write, you can hear and see me stubbornly stomping, proudly punching the air or bellowing with belly laughs.
You’ll know that I’ve hated the way I look for as long as I’ve been conscious of my own appearance. You’ll know that I go red in the face when I do sport. You’ll know that I drink too much wine and sometimes forget how I got home. You’ll know about my anxiety and you’ll know about the dead father, the loving mother, the Smartarse brother, the artistic sister and the imaginary mister. You’ll know that I love my family more than makes sense for a woman of my age and that I love to travel, to discover the people of the world and eat all the food in the fanciest of restaurants.
You’ll know that I love bonnet dramas and Bronte and Austen; I love Downton and Dancing. I am the typical middle-aged workingwoman with no cats but all the gay friends, cheering me on, toasting and roasting and boasting. You’ll know that I am more than a little obsessed with Tom Hiddleston,#poshtotty and you’ll know that I am unfailingly optimistic, even a little naïve. But you’ll most especially know, you’ll be certain of it, you know that I am a hopeless romantic.
Which is why this story is so unexpected.
I thought I’d find my romance in the theatre, or in a dimly lit wine bar, or at work. I thought that like Lizzie or Bridget, my romance would be a battle of wits, eyes meeting over a robust bottle of Pinot, hands finding each other under the table, a romantic comedy starring Colin Firth, someone who liked me very much, just as I am. ^
Well someone did tell me they liked me very much, just as I am (specifically that I am at my best when I'm not fake or covered, just myself). Someone’s eyes did meet mine, but over the cold steel rods of a dumbbell. The battle of wits took place three times a week, very early in the morning, in a flood lit gym studio, with mirrors on the walls that I never look into. It is about as romantic as a visit to the gynaecologist. While many of you slept soundly in your beds, we were exchanging increasingly suggestive innuendo as I gritted my teeth in agony, sweating, panting, and complaining that I couldn’t do it. But I always did do it; he was always standing beside me, lifting me off the floor when I collapsed, reminding me of my own strength, a supportive hand on my shoulder, a high-five for each milestone I surpassed, or my favourite, a cheeky spank when I don't lift my hips high enough off the ground during push ups.
I have seduced a man who has never seen me with makeup on. I’ve seduced a man who has never seen me with non-swooshed daytime clothes on. I’ve seduced a man who has seen my face so red he wondered if my eyeballs would bleed. I’ve seduced a man who has seen me cry at my own weakness, who has seen me wretch in exhaustion, who has seen me quake and quiver, strain and stretch, sweat and stink, grunt and groan, wobble and wail.*
Who would ever have thought that I, the bolshie, intellectual, fancy, wine-bar type would find my romantic comedy in a fluorescent fucking gym. Who would ever have expected that a man who shouts at me, a man who forces me to do things I do not want to do, would be the object of my affection? Who would have predicted that the only man to whom I have ever listened, a man who gives me orders, who would have predicted that that man would be the one that makes my knees weak? Who would have believed that a man who observes me as I do actual physical exercise would ever find me attractive?
He lets me hit him with my bare fists. He lets me throw my entire weight against him and push him off balance. And a few weeks back he taught me Jiu Jitsu; the ancient Japanese art of grappling ones opponent, rolling around on the ground until one person pins the other one to the floor. I have bruises all over my arms, but most pleasingly, I have bruises on my lips. He lets me overpower him, he lets me throw him down and then one day, after I’d panted through an hour fighting him, he let me kiss him. #notsurethatispartofjiujitsu
He is the leading man of my very own romantic (martial arts themed) comedy. #bridgetandbear
[He read this before I published it, and has approved, although he wishes he wasn't named after Bear Grylls, which is ironic, because he is leading a mountain climbing expedition in Scotland as we speak. Today is his Birthday, and this was my gift to him.]
^That’s a quote from Bridget Jones for the uninitiated
*Seduced; a word I’ve used for poetic purpose rather than an exact description of any intentional intoxication
Also, but unrelated, please click here and LIKE the Art-sist-ologer, black one with white flowers, so she can win the universe of textile design and I can retire.
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