Today, I did something that I haven’t done in nearly a decade.
I went to the gym.
Did you know I used to work at a gym? In amongst reception and childminding, I’ve also breathed in the goodness of teaching older women TaeBo, younger wanna be carpet granola munchers yoga and a step class with a strength/stability focus, for shits and giggles. I was…well, a firmer version of myself.
I don’t build muscle or strength easily. Case in point: it took two years of carrying Isobel for me to be able to pop up a tiny little bicep at my most flexxed to the gills moments. I’ve got pipe(cleaner)s, you see.
I do drop weight quicker than Oprah can ask for a seam to be let out.
So I’ve avoided the gym, knowing that a) it’s fucking addictive, when you’re still caught up in the love affair of constant anorexic relapse; b) whenever I’ve been unhappy with myself, I’ve just gone on a diet (aka relapse) and that generally left no jiggly bits around; c) I drop weight and gain no size even if I’m doing nearly only weights, so I basically end up looking like I have an even bigger head than I do; and d) I just don’t want to.
I walk, everyday, for at least an hour with Isobel. Most days, closer to two or three – at least 4 kilometres…that’d be 2 and a half miles, yanks. The recommended exercise for most adults is 30 minutes a day. I’ve shrugged it off.
Today, jogging on the treadmill in short shorts and a long wife beater, I was faced with two things: significant shortness of breath and my thighs, bouncing like a woman who owns DDs but thinks she can go braless for a jump rope contest. It wasn’t pretty, to me. Either condition.
I mean, frick. I used to own that shit.
I used to teach a class, then take a class, then get a snack, then go for a jaunt on the recumbent bike. I used to run for two hours straight with a smoke in one hand, cell phone in the other and a discman flopping in the pouch of my hoody. I used to be so much tighter.
And I used to be able to run for longer than five minutes straight before lactic acid threatened to dissolve my calves and I was half-sputtering.
Tomorrow? I’m going back to tame that bitch. And I’ll keep going back, as long as childcare and finances and motivation allow. Why?
Because I refuse to accept that I have a good body for a nearly 30 year old. Fuck that. I want a good body, for a 19 year old.
I will not be pwned.
