This morning I did something I haven't done in a very long time; I attended an exercise class at our local hall.
I've been threatening to attend this class for pretty much the whole ten months I've lived here but it took until today to actually make it in the door (the last time I tried to attend it was cancelled which I decided was an omen).
To be fair, the reason I don't usually go for this sort of stuff is because they tend to be in the mornings and bringing the baby along doesn't seem wise, although on occasion I have tried it.
When I was in Perth I once brought him along to a Zumba class, reasoning I could sit him in his buggy in the corner of the hall, where he would sit happily and watch the class. I'm an optimist like that.
Of course this didn't happen. Ten minutes in he clambered down and began exploring. A room full of frenetically Zumba-ing women is no place for a wandering two-year-old and after I'd sent him flying to the ground for the second time with my shimmying bottom, it was clear that my time was up.
To be honest I wasn't that upset. My face was redder than any human's should be at that stage.
But this morning I woke with resolve. I would try it again. He's older now and less likely to interrupt, so I sat him in his buggy, with two books, a drink, a snack and a warning.
This time it was Konga, which is a mish-mash of dance, kickboxing, Pilates and everything in between. (Please note, not to be confused with 'The Conga' which is a drunken human train weaving itself around a hotel bar at 3 am following a wedding.)
And I'm happy to report that it was vigorous, sweaty and yes, hard! To date, apart from my (very occasional) swims, the majority of the exercise for this regime has been in front of YouTube. And while this is certainly effective (to the tune of 5kgs!), it doesn't quite have the same effect as engaging with a real group.
Pride dictates that, when you reach a point when you're so knackered you want to lie face down on the floor, you will soldier on when surrounded by a room full of women who are equally fagged. With YouTube you (well I), simply press pause for a moment while gathering my strength for a moment, which can, I suppose, be detrimental to the particular movement.
As for the baby (OK he's three but since he's the youngest he'll always be 'the baby), he sipped, snacked and watched, waving occasionally and refusing to run around the hall with the other two toddlers in tow. I can't help but feel he won't be so docile next time but we'll deal with that when it happens.
When it was all over I was left feeling jubilant, energized and happy that I can now add Konga to my eclectic little workout pot of Jillian Michaels (for when I'm feeling fat), Tiffany Rothe and the New York City Ballet Workout.
Weight-wise the dial is still tantalisingly hovering just under the cusp of the 70 kg, but I'm confident with this new addition to the regime I will be hitting those dizzy lows soon. Overall I feel smaller than I did six weeks ago, without question, and that will have to do for now. However I do find that this heightened awareness of food and weight is resulting in some pretty impressive baking storms in the kitchen on occasion.
Yesterday I baked enough to cater for a small wedding and my husband and children were packed off to work and school this morning with more than they could hope to eat. I allow myself just a nibble on a corner, but in a way that's enough.
Another side effect is the deluge of body-skimming dresses I've recently purchased, a little prematurely I might add, but which I simply couldn't resist after trying one on in a shop recently.
Losing weight isn't just the dropping of numbers on a scale, it also redefines how we perceive ourselves, and my body image over the past two years has been horrendous, filling me with shame and self-loathing. As the pounds drop I feel I'm welcoming back an old friend who had gone walkout for way too long.
Of course my inner feminist screams furiously at me for quantifying my worth by my size, but it's hard not to; we are conditioned to do this from a very young age, not always consciously, but by osmosis, particularly if we had mothers who constantly dieted and talked about their weight.
But to stay positive about all this, I'm trying to focus on taking care of myself better, of prizing this body I have. I regularly read The Times columnist Melanie Reid, who incurred a spinal chord injury from a riding accident a couple of years ago and has paralysis in much of her body.
While never preachy, she regularly gently reminds us that these bodies we have are wonderous machines which we should never, ever take for granted.
I'm trying to do that, and as I lie reading in bed each night - currently A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar - free of alcohol, and exhausted from exercise, I can congratulate myself that I've tried my best that day to make this body better than ever (and we won't mention the messiness that is the weekend...that doesn't count, this is purely a five day a week experiment!).
I've been threatening to attend this class for pretty much the whole ten months I've lived here but it took until today to actually make it in the door (the last time I tried to attend it was cancelled which I decided was an omen).
To be fair, the reason I don't usually go for this sort of stuff is because they tend to be in the mornings and bringing the baby along doesn't seem wise, although on occasion I have tried it.
When I was in Perth I once brought him along to a Zumba class, reasoning I could sit him in his buggy in the corner of the hall, where he would sit happily and watch the class. I'm an optimist like that.
Of course this didn't happen. Ten minutes in he clambered down and began exploring. A room full of frenetically Zumba-ing women is no place for a wandering two-year-old and after I'd sent him flying to the ground for the second time with my shimmying bottom, it was clear that my time was up.
To be honest I wasn't that upset. My face was redder than any human's should be at that stage.
But this morning I woke with resolve. I would try it again. He's older now and less likely to interrupt, so I sat him in his buggy, with two books, a drink, a snack and a warning.
This time it was Konga, which is a mish-mash of dance, kickboxing, Pilates and everything in between. (Please note, not to be confused with 'The Conga' which is a drunken human train weaving itself around a hotel bar at 3 am following a wedding.)
And I'm happy to report that it was vigorous, sweaty and yes, hard! To date, apart from my (very occasional) swims, the majority of the exercise for this regime has been in front of YouTube. And while this is certainly effective (to the tune of 5kgs!), it doesn't quite have the same effect as engaging with a real group.Pride dictates that, when you reach a point when you're so knackered you want to lie face down on the floor, you will soldier on when surrounded by a room full of women who are equally fagged. With YouTube you (well I), simply press pause for a moment while gathering my strength for a moment, which can, I suppose, be detrimental to the particular movement.
As for the baby (OK he's three but since he's the youngest he'll always be 'the baby), he sipped, snacked and watched, waving occasionally and refusing to run around the hall with the other two toddlers in tow. I can't help but feel he won't be so docile next time but we'll deal with that when it happens.
When it was all over I was left feeling jubilant, energized and happy that I can now add Konga to my eclectic little workout pot of Jillian Michaels (for when I'm feeling fat), Tiffany Rothe and the New York City Ballet Workout.
Weight-wise the dial is still tantalisingly hovering just under the cusp of the 70 kg, but I'm confident with this new addition to the regime I will be hitting those dizzy lows soon. Overall I feel smaller than I did six weeks ago, without question, and that will have to do for now. However I do find that this heightened awareness of food and weight is resulting in some pretty impressive baking storms in the kitchen on occasion.
Yesterday I baked enough to cater for a small wedding and my husband and children were packed off to work and school this morning with more than they could hope to eat. I allow myself just a nibble on a corner, but in a way that's enough.
Another side effect is the deluge of body-skimming dresses I've recently purchased, a little prematurely I might add, but which I simply couldn't resist after trying one on in a shop recently.
Losing weight isn't just the dropping of numbers on a scale, it also redefines how we perceive ourselves, and my body image over the past two years has been horrendous, filling me with shame and self-loathing. As the pounds drop I feel I'm welcoming back an old friend who had gone walkout for way too long.
Of course my inner feminist screams furiously at me for quantifying my worth by my size, but it's hard not to; we are conditioned to do this from a very young age, not always consciously, but by osmosis, particularly if we had mothers who constantly dieted and talked about their weight.
But to stay positive about all this, I'm trying to focus on taking care of myself better, of prizing this body I have. I regularly read The Times columnist Melanie Reid, who incurred a spinal chord injury from a riding accident a couple of years ago and has paralysis in much of her body.
 |
| Excellent read... |
While never preachy, she regularly gently reminds us that these bodies we have are wonderous machines which we should never, ever take for granted.
I'm trying to do that, and as I lie reading in bed each night - currently A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar - free of alcohol, and exhausted from exercise, I can congratulate myself that I've tried my best that day to make this body better than ever (and we won't mention the messiness that is the weekend...that doesn't count, this is purely a five day a week experiment!).
No comments:
Post a Comment