Haunting My Ghosts

had started exercising at home since, as a member of the fairer sex, it was very evident that I lacked the ability to ‘glow’ while I worked out. Not for me were the light dustings of diamond like glinting beads of sweat across my even facial complexion. I’m afraid no.
The all too familiar scene that greeted me then and now involved being severely flushed about the cheeks, while the tense skin across my forehead was taught, devoid of both wrinkles and no doubt life giving blood! Then there was the sweat, which didn’t seem to increase at a steady pace throughout the workout session but just suddenly appeared. As if someone had paused time on earth's dimension, doused me with water, then resumed time leaving everyone else un-affected. One second I was dry; then I was drenched. Big rings of sweat appearing under my armpits like the latest in designer oversized handbags. My very own ‘eewh’ collection!

The sweat didn’t stop there though, oh no, it would create perfect half moons under my strategically strapped down bosom’s, with the even more embarrassing linear rise of sweat development originating from the crack of my bum and straight up my back. I knew I was a disaster area at this point already, but the image was further exacerbated by the sound of my disorganised heavy panting which was interspersed with the extremely undignified 'back wheeze', as I struggled to catch a breath. I was totally committed to running relent-lessly through my own dizziness, but I still had my pride. I was pretty sure it would constitute a criminal offence to inflict that level of abuse on the senses of the unsuspecting paying public. Hence, I worked out in solitude.

It was fine really since it had meant a valid excuse to spend some of the money I had recently acquired. Exercising alone meant my motivation would not be born out of keeping up with those around me, but out of the single minded determination to achieve the same body as the photo I had cut from a local magazine and stuck in the corner of the mirror. This picture was not of a celebrity, or a supermodel of the uber svelte variety, nor was it a random snapshot of a perfectly shaped anonymous. It was the most recent picture I had to date of Melissa Marchant, once upon a time my best friend at school. Now she was the local success story and all round do-gooder in the town that I had recently returned to.