I’ve been feeling kinda strong and feisty lately with all my kickboxing and weight training, and last night I gave Gareth a stunning demonstration. He was checking the kitchen floor for loose tiles and asked if I could help him move the washing machine. Two minute job, nae bother.
Separate laundries, a.k.a. utility rooms, are not common on the tiny isles of Britain. At least not in our sector of the housing market. So the washing machine is usually in the kitchen, wedged under the counter.
Ours machine is clunky and heavy so shifting it is a two man job. But I wanted to prove my brute strength and usefulness so I started dragging it out myself.
"Whoa!" said Dr G, "Nice one, She-Ra!"
"Can you just move it a little bit more to the right?"
I tugged with a Monica Seles urrrghhhh. There was a CRACK. Then a whoooosh. Then Gareth was almost knocked off his feet by the mighty jet of water that shot straight into his belly.
"You broke the hose! Turnitoff turnitoff turnitoff!"
"What? How? Where!?" I helpfully threw my hands in the air.
The severed hose writhed and the water spewed, rapidly flooding our stupid little kitchen. Gareth fought his way to the cupboard under the sink. Washing powder, garbage bags, shoe polish and sponges plopped into the water as he dug around for the switch.
Finally there was silence.
"I’ll get a towel," I said.
"This has done nothing to improve your reputation for having No Practical Skills."
"This wouldn’t have happened if we lived in a civilised country where laundries are not just for a privileged few!"
So apparently the hose is attached to the washing machine with a screwy-in-thingy and the screwy-in-thingy snapped right in half. Hopefully I can track down a new hose soon as it would be nice to wash the 27 towels it took to soak up the chaos.
"What were you trying to do there?" Gareth was laughing, despite being soaked to the bone, "You’re always so violent. No more kickboxing for you!"
It seems funny now but last night it felt like the straw that soaked the camel’s back. I wanted to throw myself into the puddle and thrash like a toddler. This Fixing Up The Flat bollocks is getting old. Why does Two Minute Job task turn into an ordeal? Why can’t we just live in a dorm with a futon and a cardboard box?
I think Dr G has had enough too, going by his expression when he sat down on the couch last night and stretched his feet out under the coffee table, only to smash his toes against the microwave I’d neatly stowed there. Mess! Destruction! Trip hazards! Floods! Enough!
And what the hell does this have to do with weight loss, you may ask. Well. Perhaps we could fashion yet another weight loss analogy. Weight loss is like moving a washing machine because… people will tell you that it’ll be be quick and easy and painless but the reality can be very very messy and make you very very cranky.