God, I feel gross. The culmination of a birthday straight after Christmas, slathered on top of months of coffee and cake with friends on maternity leave, has seen me morph into Jabba the Hutt in a floral dress.
I’m not normally one to bemoan my weight or appearance. I usually think life’s too short for all that malarkey. But recently I’ve had the diet of a 18th Century French Duke and now I’m worried that life literally might be too short if I don’t change-up my routine.
A couple of things have tipped me off that I might need to change my ways. Visiting public loos with tiny cubicles has become a pain in the arse. Literally. I have to wedge my colossal behind on the seat next to the sanitary bin so often, that I’ve got a permanent ‘PHS’ logo impressed on my hip.
I’m also wearing the only pair of jeans that I own that have not yet succumbed to ‘chub rub’ from my thighs. Seriously, I could start a pubic-bush fire with the amount of friction down there. Eat your heart out, Bear Grylls!
To make matters worse, I’ve had a few false-starts when it comes to rejuvenating my exercise regime. Last week I marched into the kitchen in my joggers and hoodie. ‘Why are you in your pyjamas at this time of the day?’ Asked my husband, to which I replied, ‘these are not my pyjamas any more, my love! These sweat pants will now be used in the official capacity for which they were created! I’m off for a run!’
I managed a couple of circuits around the park until I collapsed on a bench. A passing child voiced his concern; ‘Mummy, that lady is purple!’. That was enough humiliation for me for one day.
The husband and I also dabbled in some ‘couples exercising’ (get your mind out of the gutter, please), so we decided to have a kick-about in the park. I thought some football drills would be light-hearted and enjoyable. But after ten minutes of kicking wildly and missing the ball more often than hitting it, I was getting increasingly frustrated. My husband’s condescending advice was also getting on my nerves. ‘Visualise the ball! Be the ball!’, he said. ‘You’re being a big enough ball for the both of us,’ I snorted back.
It’s bloody hard to find a way to work out when you have a toddler in-tow too. The only way I can raise my heart-rate when I’m with her is to crawl around the soft play area after her, like a less-fun ‘It’s a Knock Out’. When I do work-out, I spend the next few days in an extreme state of achiness where even putting the baby in her cot is agony.
As of yet, I haven’t found a work-out regime that’s ‘working out’ for me. But the intent is there, and that might have to be enough for now. Maybe I’ll try a few burpees after nursery drop-off. And if I don’t pass out, perhaps I’ll try a few more the day after. Who knows? In a few months, I could be the next Jane Fonda. Realistically though, I’d be lucky to be the next Natalie Cassidy.