I’ve Fallen off the Wagon

So there it is; the demise of my fitness is nearly complete. To re-cap 2017 was the year I re-sculptured my body and overhauled my cardiovascular system. I entered 2018 with a robust; muscular heart and arteries you could whistle down. I was an acheiver and could legitimately tick the ‘I do moderate exercise five times per week’ box without clenching my bum cheeks. Speaking of which when I did clench them; two firm orbs would be revealed; not that I looked…in a mirror…with a mirror…and a smile. My bingo wings were less dinner lady and more Caitlyn Jenner’s first unveiling. Even my ‘wobble’ (extra chin) which I inherited paternally along with dry skin and tiny cankles was reduced. Confidence levels relatively high I sashayed into the new year with further plans for physical endurance and personal acheivement.

2018 however didn’t pan out quite like that. In fact it could be described as roller-bladings over cobble stones in a tutu with no pants on, or juggling with puppies wearing Freddie Kruger’s gloves. Either way it’s kept me on my toes; and perhaps in retrospect that was quite enough exercise without actually visiting the gym! I did manage a walking challenge for charity in the summer and from that point on I developed an unhealthy obsession with excess eating and chilled white wine served with ice. I blame the heatwave; long summer nights listening to music under the trees whilst the kids made memories in a cheap 3-ring paddling pool until dusk. Where Kettle crisps and hummus replaced actual meals, and every night I’d produce a top-notch ice-cream cone with a variety of sprinkles before practising my Lambada and recalling the more deviant details of my first holiday abroad; Majorca 1988…

To be honest it’s standard for me to be fatter in the summer; why oh why the Lord does this to me I’ll never know. I mean right when I want to get my milk-bottle thighs out he adds podge and usually a fine rash from the heat. It seems a little unfair considering I’m Baptised, Confirmed and used to sing a ruddy decent Alto in the church choir for many years before turning to fags and cheap liquor. Anyway I accept this curse and usually adapt my warm weather wardrobe by becoming a hippie; layering, chakra bracelets, flip=flops with black painted toenails that sort of thing. That way I maintain an allure of still being in shape whilst working wishy-washy, flouncy clothing with an ethnic twist…up there for thinking down there for Bangra. Then before you know it I’m back in 80 denier’s with an a-line skirt and boots fooling the world like my Patchouli oil don’t stink, anyway I digress…

So it came to pass that my 10 classes a week at the gym fell to 6 then down to 4. As if to highlight my utter failing a whole bunch of my contemporaries at the gym continued (almost on purpose) to maintain their enthusiasm for what now seem a ridiculous number of classes per week. Furthermore they began to restrict their diet, clean eating and all that, weighing everything they ingested and performing complex mathamatical equations to ensure success. Rising like skinny, toned goddesses from the cheesy chips I still coveted they could calculate the macros I’d eaten that day, just from the the tension in the seams of my leggings. Whilst they were upping their kg’s, I’d purchased a pair of elastic-waisted trousers from Primark and considered an ISA to save for the Bariatric bed I’ll no doubt require in my lifetime. At this point it was autumn and life was simply about baked potatoes and early nights plus I’d also discovered Aldi’s cheap chocolate which wasn’t playing in my favour. Heading towards Christmas I’m now only attending one or two classes per week and the likelihood of me cancelling one or the other is quite high; depending on the Mother appearing brandishing a bottle of mulled wine and either child requiring a bath. So I’m now in a period of acceptance. And will trade henceforth on my ‘kind face’ and cheery disposition.

However my goals for 2019 are perfecting a ‘crab’ and achieving the ‘splits’; so watch this space…

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