Contrary Exercise

On March the 17th I did something I've never done before. Something so perverse as to be at the edge of my ability to comprehend why anyone could be so insane as to think this was a good idea.

I bought exercise clothes.

To be fair this wasn't a whim. In a moment of actual insanity I conceded that it would probably be a good idea to do some actual exskdjj. Exskdjhl. Exasdl;; Exe. R. Cise.

See, I can even say the word!

Right.

Exe. R. Cise clothes. Yes, mine!

Now having not ever done this nonsense before I had no idea what to get, so off I toddled to Primarni to get something that was a) cheap as I would only wear it once because honestly I won't make the same mistake twice and b) vaguely suitable. Think Sporty Spice meets a kebab van. It took me about ten minutes to work my way to a corner of the Oxford Street branch in a place which had disturbingly lurid colours and excess lycra.

Fortunately they had stuff suitable for geriatric size and I sauntered back to the office happy in the knowledge that at least one day I can tell my grandchildren that I'd thought about exercise. Once.

Kinky

What I didn't realise is that Clare, being the enthusiastic (read: insane) type was also out shopping. She'd bought a) some things called weights which looked suspiciously like something from the kinkier corner of the sex shop on Goodge Street, b) two mats, one each, which would make exercise somewhat more comfortable and c) things called ankle weights which definitely must have come from said sex shop.

So I tried them on.

Okay maybe they are actually tags to track whether I'm exercising. I didn't at all feel silly wearing them. No sirreeeee. The plan was set at 7am we would head for the roof terrace and my date with destiny.

I put the number of the paramedics on speed-dial.

The very next day... Well I was up on time, whilst the Jane Fonda of E14 was a little late. Something about it being the middle of the night. At least that's what I think she said. The plan was simple, she'd chosen a torture regime exercise plan from miCoach in the my-flatmate-is-a-lazy-mare-who-refuses-to-exercise section of the site and synchronised that with her iTorture as it should now be known.

Great.

I think it's fair to say that if you get fit from laughing I will be taking Gold at the next Olympics in everything. Imagine a hippo at her first pilates-meets-ballet session and you won't be far wrong. In lycra. Obvs. But here was the strange thing. Whilst my body was telling me I'd been doing things I shouldn't be doing I actually felt fine. No. Better than fine.

I actually felt good.

Weird. With that in mind I showered, dressed and headed off to W1 for a day of tribulations. Disappointingly I was offered a seat at Mile End. On the Central Line. By a lady. Pfft. But on the bright side I'd fair bounced to the station. In my head I was thinking that wasn't too bad, but let's face it, hardly motivation.

Later that evening I was off to the WI where I knew I was going to have to do the introductions which may have influenced how tidy I was. Classical was how my look was described by one of the lovely ladies. It was a great evening with a really interesting speaker and all was well in the world...

Until that is I was chatting with one of the other committee members towards the end of the evening when she dropped the napalm coated bombshell that was:

"Victoria, are you expecting?"

And there, in those four words lay my incentive. It was time I went down a dress size and never got offered a seat on the underground again! Ever. Well, maybe not ever, but just not because I look pregnant.

The next morning at 0650 hours I was ready. And at 0700. And at 0710. I realised that maybe Clare wasn't going to get up so with my own plan loaded on miCoach I headed to the roof to exercise. On. My. Own.

Me.

Cake.

And it was fine. It might have taken my a bit longer as I had to look at the little videos to see what the hell I was supposed to do, but exercise I did. Triumphantly I wobbled back downstairs to cool off and scoff the cake I'd brought back from the WI the previous evening. Never has a piece of cake tasted so good! When I say piece I obviously mean two pieces.

Originally I set the plan so that I would work out on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but obviously starting on the wrong day knocked things out so Saturday was the last day of my first week. Amazingly I again did it alone. More specifically I got up, made dough for bread, put the first load of washing in and then bounced up to the roof for exercise the third. Crikey.

Bonkers.

Monday would be the first day of the new exercise week and also I thought would test my resolve... It was barely above freezing and frost was everywhere. Fortunately I am well insulated, northern and slightly bonkers.

Glorious!

It was a little fresh and I did make sure I was in a patch of sunlight to get some warmth. Plus the frost made things a little slippery, but oh the air was glorious. And I felt annoyingly good about myself as I desperately struggled to do what is actually quite a simple routine.

I am after all still new to all of this insanity.

Fog lifting...

The madness was setting in as by Wednesday I was looking forward to my morning torture, which it was. I was on a roll. Or would have been if come Friday morning I was truly struggling to get moving. This was not good. By some miracle I managed to force myself to get going even in spite of the fact that thick fog was enveloping E14 making the Spanish Inquisition look a more palatable prospect than twenty minutes of exertion.

And yet...

I did it. I actually did it. And I felt very good about the fact that I'd managed to against the odds of my years of sloth.

Tomorrow. At 7am. I shall do it all again.