As of tomorrow I am embarking on a serious, month-long fitness crusade. A war against my muffin top. A fight to eradicate the flab that has accumulated around my arse and thighs. A battle of the bingo wings. More importantly, a campaign to get fit and to channel some positive energy through my slightly depressed post-Christmas self.
Historically, at the beginning of January, I’ve throw myself into some ridiculous short-fix mad fad, which involves eating fuck-all for a couple of weeks and drinking shed loads of water and a few protein shakes.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of one cleanse that involves shakes – the Forever Clean 9 detox. I have an Aloe Vera shot every morning and swear by the stuff for my dry sky and irritable bowls. Problem is, once those nine days are over, I’m back to necking a bottle of wine a night and scoffing Kettle Chips like they are going out of fashion and before I can say Dominos Pizza, the weight is back on.
In my 20s I lived by Kate Moss’s most controversial motto; “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”. I know I know, it’s not funny and it’s certainly not clever, but food just isn’t as important in your 20s as it is when you’ve had two kids and are galloping towards 40.
Eating and drinking is the pivotal focus of our weekends. I spend them playing hostess-with-the-mostess in our lovely, overly large kitchen-diner. “Let’s invite everyone round, get pissed and order a Chinese. Let’s eat our body-weight in prawn crackers before we tuck into the 17,000 calorie banquet”.
It’s is all fun and games until a year later you’re two dress sizes bigger and can’t get your jeans over your knees.
My post-children body does not respond well to eating very little anymore either. I wake up and think about breakfast. After that I think about lunch. And then it’s dinner. And frankly, life without decent food and wine? Well it’s just shit. And the willpower it takes to carry the kids leftovers from the dining table all the way over to the bin and decant it, without polishing off the remnants of their half-eaten dinner myself is just gargantuan.
Without food I’m irritable and I’m moody – a miserable wife and a short-fused mum for the duration of any diet. More miserable and short-fused than usual.
Still, the idea of putting on weight frightens the hell out of me. Dare I admit that I’ve jumped on the scales every day throughout December? Well there you go, I have. I’m pretty weight-obsessed. I expect it’s all part of my OCD. I’m far from fat, but I’m also far from fit and healthy and the closer I get towards 40, the more aware I become of my ‘winging it’ ‘quick-fix’ mentality towards weight loss and good health, all of which impacts on my mental health.
Apparently, so Google tells me, we’ll gain 30lb a year if we eat the same after 40 as we did in our 20s and 30s.
My exercise regime? Up until November it stretched to walking to school and back a couple of times a week and, well… the hoovering. A few weekend family walks, but then they always come to fruition at a pub so that probably defeats the object.
In November I was coerced into a Monday evening PT session with my good friend Jo. She dragged me to this little studio in Guiseley, North-West Leeds for a session with ex Leeds United Player Andy Couzens, who now runs his own personal training business. “Let’s get fit for Crimbo” she said. Quite obviously it didn’t happen because December came along and I was too busy getting lashed and scoffing mince pies.
The two of us did attempt a morning-after-our-Christmas-girls-night-out PT session with poor Andy in December. It ended very badly. A 10am workout following a 3am finish after Jaeger bombs and mixing our own Cosmopolitans in my kitchen-diner at 2am wasn’t the best idea.
So, new year, new me. Andy had offered to whip me into my best shape ever. Set me on the right tracks. Starting tomorrow at 9.30am.
Soz in advance for all the boring weight loss posts but do hang in there and watch the experiment. Four weeks, lots of machinery, possibly some liquid nitrogen, bare-all pictures of my fat bits, and a weekly account of my transformation.
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