Gamma girl

It`s nice to be funny.

Funny`s important. Funny`s what makes beautiful things more so, and ugly and horrible things disappear as far as they can. But it`s nice to be funny because you`ve gone out of your way to try and be funny. Rather than being funny because you`re crap.

"Why are you laughing?" I demanded last night, when my dad seemed incapable of stopping.
"You`re brilliant," he told me, as if I didn`t already know.
"Yes, but why are you laughing?"
"You`re going to... No. I have to ask you to say it again. Hang on. I`m composing myself."
Dad composed himself.
"I`m going to start cycling to work. There and back. Every day."
Dad started sniggering again.
"No, no; you forgot the punchline. How far is it?"
"30 kilometres."
And dad shouted with laughter again.
"Why are you laughing?" I screamed at the computer, lifting my chin with what I like to think was a show of righteous indignation.
"I`m laughing," dad said leaning forwards, "because that is the most ridiculous thing I`ve ever heard. And if it`s not the most ridiculous thing I`ve ever heard, it`s only because I`ve known you for 28 years."
"I am not ridiculous! I am totally serious!"
"Exactly. Two days, your last cycling-to-work scheme lasted, from what I can remember, and that was 2 miles. And then we had to sell your bike because you never touched it again."
"I`m different. I`ve changed." I then looked at the ceiling and wailed - mortally offended - "Why won`t anyone believe meeeeeeee?"
And then dad started laughing so hard he had to go and get a glass of water.

I started my earnest, eager, totally serious cycling-to-work scheme this morning. I got up at 6am on the dot, I put on my sports wear - almost entirely unworn - and my trainers (absolutely unworn). I got my little bottle of water, and charged my iPod and put a change of clothes and a towel into the little plastic basket I attached with shoelaces to the back of the BaBaBicycle. And then - with a proud toss of my head - I jumped on the bike, pushed off from the kerb and looked immensely forward to the moment when I would get to school, alight with sheeny, prettily flushed dignity and email my dad to say I told you I could do it. Now sod right off, father.

It took me two kilometres to realise four things. One: I couldn`t really breathe, and I couldn`t really see because the sweat was in my eyes. Two: both tyres were flat, and I hadn`t heard them rattling because my iPod was too loud. Three: the garage was shut and I didn`t know how to pump up my own tyres. Four: I was already late for work.

So - having thrown the bottle of water in a rage and then parked my bike so I could go and pick it up again - I had to cycle back home on my flat little tyres, have a shower, get dressed, and drive to work.

Which was not exactly the I told you so I had in mind.

The problem, I think, is that I`m essentially a Gamma girl, under some illusion that if I try hard enough I might be an Alpha. I`m crap at everything, and yet I`m totally convinced - with an enduring, undying faith - that I am a mere four weeks away from being perfect: fit, beautiful, healthy, sane, thin, successful, rich, adored. Cycling 30 kms a day? No worries, my head says. I don`t fucking think so, my body shouts back. Budding successful photographer? says my head. Easy. And then my body gets in the way and loses seven cameras in one year. Write a novel? Fall in love with a kind, handsome creative genius and make him love me? Learn Japanese? Save lots of money? Learn to surf? Not a problem, my head says, and then my inherent crapness gets in the way and makes everyone laugh at my futile little attempts. Which is not necessarily always the reaction I`m looking for.

Awe. That`s what I`d quite like. Admiration, and a little bit of straight faced awe.

Tomorrow morning, I`m getting up and I`m trying again. I`m getting up and I`m working out how to pump tyres, and I`m buying my seventh camera, and I`m writing another chapter of my novel, and I`m running three miles and I`m eating healthily and I`m not buying any beer or cheese and I`m not watching America`s Top Model and I`m probably going to study Japanese for a bit and plan my imminent trek in Nepal (which will be easy, obviously, seeing as 2kms on a bike on a flat road nearly killed me). I`m going to become serene and not-at-all-unbalanced and loveable and beautiful and sophisticated and I`m going to blow my hair dry in the morning insead of tying it up in a ponytail while it`s still wet so I look like some kind of Robert Palmer video.

I am going to get up and I`m going to keep going, because - somewhere, under all the crapness and constant reaching and falling - there is somebody amazing: I am certain of it. And if there isn`t?

Maybe with all the trying I`ll find somebody nearly as good instead.

Somebody who makes people laugh.