Outsmarting the Heathrow Injection
With enthusiasm far outweighing ability, I've joined the gym. I've bought gym-friendly clothes which are too small of course, because I will shrink and fit them. In the meantime they are rudely skintight and the world can see the enormous size of my undies. At least big pants are in. Apparently.
It's been five years since I paid any attention to my fitness, so the time has come.
Luckily I do enjoy exercise classes. The music and my general lack of co-ordination are all the distractions I need to complete a class without collapsing. So yes, enjoying it helps but you can take it too far - hello, lady in my old Body Combat class who wore army fatigues and had stripy camouflage paint on her cheeks. You took it too far. It was a little bit scary.
The gym is not supposed to be humiliating. The brochure says that all fitness levels are welcome. Maybe it was my choice of class, but that was up there with "I keep slim by chasing after my children" for whoppers.
The first class I went to was Total Abs which I thought would be full of mummies like me in tracksuits. But no. Let's see: there were two lycra clad women in no need of such a class; there were three ripped, twenty packed, male model body builders; then there was me in my too-small trackies with my muffin top hanging out and an undies line not just visible but unmissable. Oh goody.
Reminding myself that I might be a bit squishy but I have a personality, I got my mat and headed for the back of the room. No worries. Sadly, what I thought was the back was the front. So I found myself not only fronting the class, but with a mirror in front of me. So everyone in that room could see not just my arse hanging out of my pants, but all the wobbling in front too.
For a warm-up we had to run on the spot. That is not fun when your feet land and you feel your bum come down a second later. Especially with a roomful of athletes watching you from behind. Then I could barely do the excercises. Amazing how you can go beetroot red just by flopping yourself down on the floor, arms and legs spread out like a starfish.
The final humiliation? The fact that all the excercises depended on you squeezing your abs. Squeezing or not squeezing, I can't feel mine at all. It's as though my children used my abdominal muscles as sustenance during pregnancy.
But I've bought the clothes, so I'll keep going. I'll let you know when they fit a little better.