People often say to me "You're so fit!".
I'm not bragging, a friend said it to me just the other day, after I'd cycled across the city. (Whereupon I replied "But you're writing a novel" and grovelled humbly in her far more awesomeness).
I know I look fit. I exercise regularly.
But out on my bike today, wearing my official cycling lycra, I was overtaken – on the flat – by a curvy girl with not a hint of muscle tone in a little white broderie anglaise dress.
Bam! Another of my stereotypes challenged.
Okay, she was about 30 years younger than me. She probably slept like a baby last night and didn't wake up feeling like she was coming down with a cold. For all in know, she might have just had a double espresso. She might have been on the way to a date with a new love, and not on her way to work.
All's I'm saying is it's relative. I might very well be fitter than some, but certainly not as fit as I was, and I know because I remember what that felt like.
