Emails, Dolly and Cheesecake

Emails. I liken them to grey hairs. You knock one email down, and three more pop up in its place. I don't have any grey hairs - well at least, there's none that I know of anyway. But after the past few days at work, with the exponential growth of emails in my inbox, I wouldn't be surprised if I'm half-way to being a white-haired nanna by Friday. Ahhh! The joys of a sales role in a call centre environment.

Thank goodness I've started writing in this blog again. Instead of wanting to bitch and moan about work, I've voiced my opinion about emails and left it that. I bet my Team Leader wishes I would do the same about him and work. Alas, I digress again.

Onto other news.

Monday. Manic, manic, Monday. In an attempt to diffuse the steam building up within my mind and body caused by the internal battle between the devil on my left ("Delete the emails, Michelle!! DELETE!!!!) and the angel on my right ("Michelle - let's think logically here - is that professional? No, it's not. Yes, I know some of the emails are pointless and ridiculous, and some probably don't deserve a response, but STILL - , how many times have others answered YOUR stupid emails..."), I headed to my local gym after work to sweat out my frustrations. After all, what was the better alternative? Head straight home, kick up my feet on the sofa and drink bucket-loads of wine whilst lamenting my inability to actually BURN emails? Nope, not this chicky-babe - lets sweat this out and release some endorphins, yeah!

So off to the gym I went. I hadn't been there on a Monday before, and it was packed. Yikes. I hate it when gyms are packed, because it's usually packed full of smelly boys who've never heard of deoderant before, yet have their "supplements" provider on speed-dial (read: "steroids").

(Apologies for the blatant sterotyping. I know I'm stereotyping. Although I did have an ex-boyfriend who spent most of his time at the gym "making friends" (read: finding people who could get him testosterone and Human Growth Hormone steroids)).

Yikes. I digress once more.

Anyhow, I went straight to the weight machines. Chest press, Leg press, Leg Curl and Leg Extension. 3 sets of 10 reps on each machine. Done. Head towards the stretch and abs area. On the way there, pass aforementioned stereotypes. Hear one of them say to the rest of them as I'm coming: "Check this dolly out".

Ahem.

Did they just call me.... Dolly?

DOLLY??

I don't know about you, but when I hear the word "Dolly", I automatically think of three things:

Dolly - the cloned Sheep

Barbie - the Doll

Dolly Parton - The Country Singer

In all fairness, Dolly Parton is a human Barbie doll in her own right, so perhaps it's only two things?

So my automatic reaction is - Excuse me?? Is it because I'm slim? Is it because I'm wearing pink? Is it because I'm wearing my cats-eyes glasses?? Well listen up, BUCKO - I'm sorry I'm no beefcake, but I don't plan on that happening. I'm slim because I work out and take care of my body, I like the colour pink (it goes well with my skin-tone, thank you very much) and I'm blind as a bat and have been told not to wear contacts for a week (dead cells on my eyes from contact overuse, apparently - ewww), so my cats eye glasses are NECESSARY.

Arrrrrgggghhhh.

I really do wish that boys would shut up and focus on other things at the gym - such as building up their legs, not just their arms and chests. Chicken legs are NOT a good look boys.

Perhaps I'm being a bit sensitive. But honestly, the last thing I want after a hard slog at work is to be judged on my appearance.

Onto good news - the cheesecake I made for our "Bring a plate of food to work" day on Monday turned out pretty well. It looked a little bit like a bloody massacre (or mixed berry greek yoghurt even), but it was good! Compliments were given and the whole thing disappeared. Phew. What a relief. Have a look at the picture below:

Well, this has been a bit of divergent post! Apologies for the rant(s). But I am feeling much better now!

Thank goodness hump day is tomorrow - yay!!

xox Mich