The Cow that Jumped Over the Moon

Miracles had happened. I’d high-tailed it out of Blighty. Moved in with with the man of my dreams. And returned to a land that nourished my soul and filled my heart with joy.  I’d hit the jackpot. Scored a hat trick. I felt unstoppable. Indefatigable.

I was the cow who’d jumped over the moon.

And there was no way I was going to let this rare interval of serendipity go to waste. I had Lady Luck’s nipple in my craw and I was going to suck the milk of her good fortune…‘til that bitch’s tit ran dry.

So my first few weeks were a tsunami of activity. I was excited. Optimistic. Rabidly gung-ho. I was a maniac on a mission. And like it or not, my man was joining me for the ride. Stage One was launched - our domestic set-up required immediate attention. Now, don’t get me wrong, my guy’s gaff is certainly very plush and palatial. And most people would have been deemed it a paragon of hygiene. But I’m not most people. I’m an obsessive, compulsive freak of nature. To my intolerant eye, it had issues. It needed to be cleaned - forensically. And the macho décor required a significant dial down. Then – and only then – could we begin the process of feathering our looming love nest.

So together we set about stripping, scouring, and scrubbing the place, before feverishly redecorating, refitting and refurnishing. Out went the old and after a steady succession of avaricious shopping trips, in came the new. Bed linen and bath towels; cookers, crockery and cupboards, saucepans, side tables and soap dishes - within a matter of days this one time lad’s pad had been utterly emasculated. We now had ourselves a fully-fledged, super-soft furnished, jasmine-scented, candlelit palace of passion.

Home was sorted.

With the wind beneath my wings I then soared straight on to the next major item on my agenda…

Me.

I was a fucking mess.

When I’d stepped off the plane I was pallid, puffy-eyed and porky. Nonetheless, I’d hoped that after a hot shower, a good night’s sleep and a few days of soaking up some rays I’d be right back on track. But two weeks on and I still looked pasty and felt positively rotundrahedral. I needed to shape up. My guy deserved a goddess for a girlfriend, not someone with the sex appeal of a swollen slug. However, unlike our home, a fresh coat of paint and a few scatter cushions simply weren’t going to cut it. What I needed was a full body overhaul.

So in came the draconian diet whereupon all foodstuffs verging anywhere near the colour beige were promptly banished. Chips, cheese naan and channa masala were dead to me. It was strictly fruit and veg all the way. Then began the extreme fitness regime.

Fortunately for me, my boyfriend takes his physique super-seriously. He has an entire room dedicated to the matter of exercise. A chamber of sheer physical torture – wall-to-wall weights, punch bags and various cardiovascular contraptions of terror. I wanted a washboard stomach. And he knew how to could get it. So together we fashioned a get-fit programme which included my usual 2-hours of ashtanga home practice, followed by an hour of press-ups, planks and weight lifting with him; a mid-morning Vinyasa yoga class and a late afternoon hour-and-a-half bout of light Hatha.

Day one went incredibly well. Day two was an unmitigated disaster.

I was halfway through my Vinyasa class, straining to get into a posture called Marichiasana D – an extreme abdominal twist which combined a half lotus with a contortionate hand bind – when it happened. Something inside of me snapped. It felt like my bladder. And it was accompanied by waves of sharp, shooting pain. It wasn’t good news. I wasn’t going to be able to finish that class. Nevertheless, I thought I’d just pulled a muscle. Overdone it a tad on all this newfound exertion. My boyfriend agreed. So I took a few days off.

And then I did something really stupid. I signed up for a weeklong ashtanga intensive, which involved 6 hours of practice a day. I thought I’d recovered. I thought I could hack it. I was that cow. Jumping over that moon.

Problem was, I hadn’t quite thought through the landing aspect to this lunar leap. So when I came down, I did so with one almighty thud…and I was promptly rushed into hospital.