I got the seven-year-old to take a photo of me this morning, in order to compare with the dismal photo posted on day one of this challenge. But I refuse to share it with you since I haven't changed in the slightest. No, despite the swimming and the sweat-inducing workouts, the austere diet and the week-day alcohol-ban, I look EXACTLY the bloody same, just a bit sadder.
But I won't be put off, I know there is no way my body can be experiencing all this health and well-being without benefiting in some way, even if it's not exactly showing yet, so I shall soldier on.
This morning, as I prepared myself for my morning workout with Jillian, I realised I couldn't find my workout pants. I need to point out that the laundry room is basically a giant mountain of clothes which are sometimes tossed into the washing machine, washed, hung up to dry, then thrown into the cupboard where they remain until someone pulls them all down on to the floor while looking for something else, which sees them rejoining the mountain of washing and going through the entire process again. A bit like Buddhism for clothing (don't analyse that analogy too closely).
In short, it is impossible to find anything in there and I was forced to continue on with the workout in my nightie, plus a bra for safety reasons.
'So what?' I reasoned, 'workout clothing is just another way to get people to spend money - you can really workout in any loose clothing - a nightie will be JUST FINE!'
As I began the jumping jacks I suddenly realised the reason we have tight-fitting, lycra leggings for this sort of thing. The only way to describe the noise is to imagine the sound that two sea lions might make while having sex. SUSLAP! FUFLAP! CUCLAP! as my thighs beat each other into submission to the beat of the music.
'What's that sound mummy?' asked the passing nine-year-old. 'Oh, oh nothing...erm...' I muttered before pressing the pause button and going in search of something suitable from the washing pile.
But I must admit I do like to shop, and the best part of starting a new hobby or activity is shopping for the gear.
Before I had babies, I once decided to start flamenco dance classes and spent a pleasant afternoon buying the shoes, a long skirt and a CD of flamenco music to practice to. I looked forward to discovering my inner Latina, to unleash the JLo from within. Tragically my flamenco career was short-lived; one lesson of clattering about behind the rest of the class, trying to stomp to the off-beats, left me hot and humiliated - especially since Esperanza the instructor insisted on pointing out my mistakes to the rest of the (incredibly experienced) class. An hour later I skulked out of there, never to return.
I've always promised myself I'd one day give flamenco another try, and those shoes have followed me half way around the world, and are currently sitting despondently at the bottom of my wardrobe...
But the fact remains, it's time to go out and buy some proper gear, my one pair of K-Mart sweat pants just won't cut it I'm afraid. I need gear designed to hold in the flab so that it doesn't attack me while I'm working out. And it helps if it's a little attractive and feminine - hey anything helps when you're flat on your back, sweating like a pig, trying to keep up with the DVD while your family step over you on the way to the fridge.
I wonder if Sweaty Betty deliver to Australia...?
But I won't be put off, I know there is no way my body can be experiencing all this health and well-being without benefiting in some way, even if it's not exactly showing yet, so I shall soldier on.
This morning, as I prepared myself for my morning workout with Jillian, I realised I couldn't find my workout pants. I need to point out that the laundry room is basically a giant mountain of clothes which are sometimes tossed into the washing machine, washed, hung up to dry, then thrown into the cupboard where they remain until someone pulls them all down on to the floor while looking for something else, which sees them rejoining the mountain of washing and going through the entire process again. A bit like Buddhism for clothing (don't analyse that analogy too closely).
In short, it is impossible to find anything in there and I was forced to continue on with the workout in my nightie, plus a bra for safety reasons.
'So what?' I reasoned, 'workout clothing is just another way to get people to spend money - you can really workout in any loose clothing - a nightie will be JUST FINE!'
As I began the jumping jacks I suddenly realised the reason we have tight-fitting, lycra leggings for this sort of thing. The only way to describe the noise is to imagine the sound that two sea lions might make while having sex. SUSLAP! FUFLAP! CUCLAP! as my thighs beat each other into submission to the beat of the music.
 |
| I sounded like humping sea lions... |
'What's that sound mummy?' asked the passing nine-year-old. 'Oh, oh nothing...erm...' I muttered before pressing the pause button and going in search of something suitable from the washing pile.
But I must admit I do like to shop, and the best part of starting a new hobby or activity is shopping for the gear.
Before I had babies, I once decided to start flamenco dance classes and spent a pleasant afternoon buying the shoes, a long skirt and a CD of flamenco music to practice to. I looked forward to discovering my inner Latina, to unleash the JLo from within. Tragically my flamenco career was short-lived; one lesson of clattering about behind the rest of the class, trying to stomp to the off-beats, left me hot and humiliated - especially since Esperanza the instructor insisted on pointing out my mistakes to the rest of the (incredibly experienced) class. An hour later I skulked out of there, never to return.I've always promised myself I'd one day give flamenco another try, and those shoes have followed me half way around the world, and are currently sitting despondently at the bottom of my wardrobe...
But the fact remains, it's time to go out and buy some proper gear, my one pair of K-Mart sweat pants just won't cut it I'm afraid. I need gear designed to hold in the flab so that it doesn't attack me while I'm working out. And it helps if it's a little attractive and feminine - hey anything helps when you're flat on your back, sweating like a pig, trying to keep up with the DVD while your family step over you on the way to the fridge.
I wonder if Sweaty Betty deliver to Australia...?
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