My New Vice

So, ball class last night. Polly Pocket and I, it seems, have been pumping our balls up too much (oooh-er). We noted last night that despite Polly’s ball being a size 55 and mine being a 65, Polly’s ball was by no means 10cm smaller than mine. So I was delighted when the mad woman (who teaches the class) came over and pulled the plug on Polly’s ball. I took great satisfaction at watching it shrink before my very eyes, cackling in what, if I’m honest, can only be called an evil/witch-like manner. UNTIL… the mad woman got her paws on mine and announced that it was too hard (again – oooh-er) and summarily shoved me off the ball and pulled the plug out. I watched in dismay as the very life puffed out of my ball, while Polly took her chance to cackle wildly in response (I may be telling that with a little injection of melodrama – but I’ve got quite attached to my plump, over-pumped ball).

Hmph. Well if we’re going down, then comedy ball girl can go down with us (the other friend who goes), so, in a very adult manner, I put on my seven year old voice, pointed at her, frankly massive ball, and said “what about hers”? Unlike when I was seven, it worked, the mad woman attacked her ball too and I had the warm glow that can only be created by inflicting your own suffering on someone else.

But it seems I was right to have got attached to my over-pumped ball – because sitting down on the deflated ball felt like sitting on a piece of over-ripe (and very large) fruit. Horrible. (Or a cushion as Polly Pocket more accurately described it). Our next exercise was the swimming pike, where you have your knees on the ball, hands in press up position on the floor and then raise your legs so that your kneeling on the ball with your hands still on the floor (get that? No, though not – just create a picture in your head of bottoms in the air knees balanced on ball, hands on floor – get it now – yep – that’s it).

Anyway – it turns out the swimming pike is almost impossible on a large, over-ripe piece of fruit. Both Polly Pocket and I fell off sideways, looking none too graceful. Damn the mad woman. I am going to have to become a secret ball pumper – do it in the privacy of my own home where the mad woman can’t see – it’ll be like having a secret vice. I’ll nip into the spare room while no one is looking, shiftily dart my eyes from side to side before whipping the ball pump out of its secret hiding place (where only I know) and giving the ball a surreptitious pump before returning to the living room with the thin disguise of an inane smile on my face and a defensive attitude.