It’s Working Out So Far

by benrobins1

The running route. Hideous, isn’t it?

Before I begin, I would like to establish that this title is in no way any of the following:

A) a proclamation of my Herculean metabolism and/or proactive outlook on life,

B) an exercise of self-guilt by informing the world of my routine, thereby forcing myself to keep to it, or

C) even remotely indicative of my chemical inclinations or lifestyle choices.

It is, however, a desperate attempt to ingeniously focus on the ‘working’ of ‘working out’. Specifically, the narcolepsy-inducing combination of exercise and working with children.

This happens literally every time we attempt to wash clothes. Judging by the waterproof paint five inches up the wall, this particular water-feature is intentional…

To summarise the pre-shift morning today: wake up, swear, attempt to return to dream. Conscience overrides craving. Highly supportive Meg mentally preps me for first run in Korea/months, to which I respond with grunts and negativity (standard).

Run itself feels like I’m approximately two-thirds of a mile from the surface of the Sun, and climaxes spectacularly with me tripping on the pavement and crashing slow-motion into a vegetable stall, sending bags of garlic flying. Choe soong hamnida, choe soong hamnida, choe soong hamnida, I mutter as I restock the table and run with a hitherto unseen haste and athleticism.

However, I know as well/better than any the tedium of reading about another’s exercise habits; either I’m doing far less than you and it’s amateur (likely), or I’m doing far more than you (unlikely) and I sound Full Of It. I assure you, I do not work out with anything approaching willingness.

One of many neon crosses dotted around the area. I gather it’s not so much a ‘Church Here’ sign as a personal expression of faith…?

To refer to previous social experiences, we are now official friends with the Ryu family, which we know to be true as they told us so. When we dropped in to see them yesterday, they gave us (refusing payment) a glass surface, chopping board, packets of bizarre-yet-delicious blueberry energy drink (…?) and, while leaving, casually picked a pot of yellow daisies from the shop for our house. We’ve given up working out exactly how many favours we need to return, but are intent on taking them out to dinner, finances permitting…

Meg, admiring more antiques.

There’s something wonderful and strange about having lived in a country for two weeks and already being able to greet a familiar shopkeeper, be invited to sit in the corner and be offered tea while they run the shop. I suspect it’s only a matter of time before I give in to braces, chain-smoking and leering at women and weyguks(foreigners) from a plastic table outside. I can base my persona on a particularly wicked character in a restaurant yesterday who continued to grin, gesticulate and cackle at us in Korean as we ate his recommended (justifiably so) Korean stew. His gestures seemed to indicate our ‘couple’ status repeatedly and energetically; we’re still unsure if he was offering advice on wholesome nutrition or enthusiastically telling us it was an aphrodisiac.

Meg and myself cross the pond to Jess Neale, in all her wonderful Englishness. It means a lot.

 

 

 

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