I’m not sure what has raised me from my slumber, and it takes my mind a few sluggish seconds to engage…mmm…just the bin trucks…Bin Trucks! Fuck! (is it really Wednesday already?) for a second I am tempted to nudge my sleeping husband in the ribs and get him to take the bins out but then it occurs to me that A) by the time I’ve woken him and explained the situation we will be cutting our time to get the bins out dangerously thin and B) If I then have to explain, on top of that, which bins have to go out ,we definitely will miss the rubbish collection. 

 

I throw the duvet off and hurriedly pull my slippers on whilst my left boob tries valiantly - and almost successfully - to escape my pyjama tank top before I make a mad dash down the stairs. I would normally, at this point, take a few seconds to lament the effects of gravity but there simply isn’t time. Grabbing my coat, I run outside and start hurriedly pulling bins to the kerb (why is it that when I forget the bins its always on recycling week?) whilst shooting out a quick prayer that none of my neighbours will be out this early. 

 

Jeez its cold outside! The frost covered ground numbs my toes and as I grab the cardboard box that we have been using for this fortnights recycling, the bottom falls out. Son of a…! You have got to be kidding me. I can see the truck slowly rolling down the road in the distance and the bin crews are starting to empty bins with startling alacrity for this time of the morning. I bend over and start picking up cereal boxes, egg boxes and all the detritus that a family of four collects in a fortnight, shoving them in the plastic tub we normally use. I get it all in the box and to the kerb just as the bin team arrives. I strive for a nonchalant but cheery “good morning” when it occurs to me that, whilst being friendly, the poor man seems to be looking anywhere but at me. I look down and see that, in my haste, the belt of my trench coat has come undone revealing the comfy yet ZERO supportive tank top that has already let me down this morning and now again, in the SAME WAY, with faded way -too- short shorts. I can feel the heat in my face and decide to take the cowards way out as I pull the coat closed tighter than a nun’s habit and bolt for my front door without saying a word. 

 

I need coffee.

 

I zoom through the house doing all the chores that the rest of my family don’t even know exist and even manage to deliver an online presentation on Surviving the Cost-of-Living Crisis – a Guide for Micro and Small Charities. Feeling slightly smug and like a woman in complete control (I don’t count this morning’s bin incident as it occurred before the first cup of coffee) I get changed and head over to the gym for a “multi tonal fitness class”. 

 

I’ve done this class a few times and I like that its calm with an instructor who is also familiar with the effects of gravity, mum-tums and dodgy knees, when in walks a pretty, perky, pocket-sized instructor wearing a headset.  “WhatsUp Girlies” she trills. “I’m Sapphire! Let’s get Fat Busting!” and with that the most horrendous thumping music seems to come from every area of the room. The next 40 minutes pass by in a blur of pain and noise and I find myself thinking that storming the gates of hell must be easier than this. “Girlies, you are positively Glowing” Trills Sapphire and I’m tempted to yell back (if I could be heard over the music) that no, Sapphire, this is not “glowing”. Glowing is the look you get sitting in a cosy chair by the fireside, reading a wonderful book after a glass or two of wine. This, Sapphire, is called sweating like a pig.

 

The afternoon passes in a blur of emails, phone calls and simultaneous conversations with different family members whilst cooking dinner, sorting out missing P.E kits and answering homework queries until there is just one last item on my “To Do” list before a hot bath and relaxing in my comfy Pj’s and slippers.

 

Weekly Fat Club time. Standing in the queue to get weighed I see Bob heading my way. Oh, good God no. I try frantically to find an escape but it’s hard to make a run for it in just your socks on a polished wooden floor and then it’s too late - he zeros in like a heat seeking missile. “Hello!” he booms out and immediately starts to engage in conversation without even waiting to hear my reply. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but it really seems the next people entering are stalling rather than joining the weigh in line. “And that’s how I discovered that Yakult is not only good for your gut health but can cure verruca’s too” he continues to boom. A bottleneck is starting to form at the entry to the school hall and the Fat Club leader beckons them in with a smile and a cheery “come on in, ladies.” Yes, I think Please do come in and listen to Bob and his yogurty verruca’s.

 

 Later that evening, as I lie in my hot bath, I ponder a pod cast I heard recently (that’s a lie – I’m not nearly so trendy that I listen to podcasts – I read it somewhere) about The Advantages of Keeping Your Ducks In A Row. Except I don’t have ducks in a row… more like a bag of feral squirrels all jittery on coffee and frantically searching for acorns that taste of chocolate. 

 

Which brings me to one of the latest catchphrases that seems to pop up everywhere: “Winning at Life”. For a moment I’m tempted to immediately put myself in the losing category, but I pause. Here I am, lying in the bath with a mug of tea (made by my eldest before doing more work on her school project, completely unprompted), listening to my youngest singing to herself in the room next door and my husband has gone to buy wine to celebrate reaching my first weight loss target – and to numb the pain that radiates from my derrière every time I try and walk thanks to the pocket -sized terrorist who hijacked the gym class today. My family is healthy and happy. My home is warm and clean (tidy is one ambition too far).

 

I continue to soak in the bubbles as I contemplate the fact that my life is ordinary. Super ordinary – maybe even bordering on the boring. Am I a trendsetter, a globe-trotter, a revolutionary or a role model? No, probably not. 

 

But I am a safe haven to at least three other people. A rock on which they can depend, a champion in their corner, a hand to hold when life gets stormy, the holder of their secrets and avid supporter of their dreams. A friend to many, kind and even, on occasion, funny.

 

It’s not a bad resum`e. Maybe this is the real meaning of #WinningAtLife? To see the awesome in the ordinary every day, to embrace it, value it and understand that actually, this seemingly humdrum life I lead,  is both a precious, amazing gift and privilege.