My metabolism in physical form is a snail called Nelson with an overwhelming passion for cheesy chips. Due to Nelson and his carby endeavors there is not a fucking chance that I’m one of those lucky buggers that’s a natural size 8, who can just throw on a bikini & look like Blake Lively..
So lately I’ve been flirting with the gym again. I wouldn’t call it a full blown affair but there’s some serious appeal in seeing us together again. Summer is coming and with summer, comes the denim shorts, you know the ones- the ones that are just that little bit too small, that show just that little too much butt cheek- the ones that girls will wear despite their breakfast being on display for all willing (or unwilling) passers by to see.
I mean don’t get me wrong I love a pair of denim shorts as much as the next girl but I’m not willing to become part of the breakfast club just yet!
Mr Gym and I have been through both great and awful times together and have somewhat of a history, I love his company and the way he makes me feel, I just also have strong feelings for Mr. Takeaway and often find myself in an awkward love triangle with them both demanding my undivided attention.
I think the love affair first began whilst I was at uni (3rd year) after realising that living off large pizzas and pints of wine was taking its toll on my body and recoiling in horror at some of the pictures I’d been tagged in, the tanned Pillsbury doughboy personified! Besides, I had to find something to do on my breaks whilst writing that beast of a dissertation in between crying, rolling round the floor and complaining how unfair my life was (oh the naivety). Enter Gym like a mirage in the desert, a knight in shining armour, a light in the dark.
I’m lying, it didn’t happen like that at all. At first Gym was a shit boyfriend who never complimented me or showed any compassion, leaving me in a flustered mess on each and every one of our encounters.
I may have mentioned- I am possibly the clumsiest, most awkward person when I’m in a situation I’m not familiar with. My first gym induction started with an epic backwards roll off the treadmill much to my personal trainer’s amusement, (not quite sure how I did it to this day) but finding myself in a tangled heap in the gym surrounded by ridiculously fit people wasn’t my idea of a good time.
Since then I’ve kept my distance from Mr Treadmill just in case he takes it upon himself to publicly mug me off again.
There’s been other occasions of utter embarrassment in the gym, dropping a weight on my foot and styling it out by casually limping and jumping on the spot, swinging like a monkey from a pull-up bar unable to get down (saved by another PT). Training easily on a cross-trainer for 10 mins and thinking that I was an absolute cardio legend before realising that it wasn’t in fact switched on and that I have a closer resemblance to a chicken legend than anything else!
But I know when I stick to it and ignore the pub calling my name and my cosy sofa complete with new ep of Don’t Tell The Bride playing on the big screen and actually kick some ass, my body does respond pretty well.
With my obsessive nature, whilst on one of my health-kicks of which there have been many, I temporarily zone out and think I could be one of those ripped woman with “fitspo” quotes posted over my ass, fuck I could be the next Jessica Ennis. I strut out of the gym protein shake in hand, in my work coat and gym clothes feeling like a personal trainer and fitness extraordinaire exuding comments such as “go hard or go home”. This probably being a Monday or Tuesday, skip forward to Saturday and I’ll be spooning a bucket of pick a mix justified in the simplest way “if there’s no calories on the pot.. there’s no calories in the pot!” Despite my on and off fling with the gym, cheating occasionally with any chocolate I can lay my hands on, I still find myself checking for abs after every work out and am bitterly disappointed they haven’t appeared over night? (is this just me!?).
In my latest escapade- I’ve embarked on a training plan to run 10K due to my ever so lovely boyfriend kindly signing us up to be in with a chance of running the 42K London Marathon (….The, Fuck?!).
10K? I hear all you fit, running people out there cry; “why that isn’t a challenge- that’s a pre-run warm up!” But to me- this is a huge challenge, I do not run for buses, P.E at school equaled hiding in the toilets and due to my fear of treadmills my natural running form is non-existent. To give you an accurate image: My running stride resembles a lost donkey crossed with Phoebe from Friends. When I run, I can’t stop for anything- If I stop I’ll never start again and will walk the entire way home- causing me to run (lost donkey style) in front of cars, because they have to stop don’t they?!
Avoiding the lure of fluffy dogs, even if they do chase me for a while and the owner begs me to stop as the dog will just keep chasing me.. I can’t. Must. Keep. Going. Even with my newly acquired random dog & owner entourage in tow. God damn it if my shoe falls off, the show must go on.
I’m definitely speeding towards becoming one of those irritating fucks that feels the need to tell the world every single time they don a pair of running trainers that makes everyone want to slap them in the face with a bacon and egg sandwich. I do apologise and I know it’s annoying but similar to the donkey, I just need to be patted on the head and told I’m doing well.
Don’t get me wrong although I’ve upped the anti on my fitness, I’m still championing team burger and am a proud sponsor of pick-a-mix at the weekend and treat myself when I need to.. (and no blog post would be complete without) alcohol…
I thought I should distill all the health with a decent measure of alchoholic fucking about. I’m well known for being a complete idiot once I’ve had a few drinks and now in my head (3 weeks into my training plan) I’m also a drunken idiot who thinks she’s Paula Radcliffe. So I’m tearing down our street at midnight after a few drinks screaming .. “I’m gonna get to the house before youuu” when I run slap bang, straight into the back of a parked car. The bf meanwhile is ahead of me, naturally (and walking) asking what the fuck I’m doing whilst I’m styling my epic fail out by pretending to hide behind the car and waffling about a lost medal.
Let’s face it I’m not a fitness expert, or an athlete, I’m not winning any medals any time soon and I haven’t hung up my carb hat totally but I am getting into shape and trying to be healthy. Don’t get me wrong I will still have those moments mid-week when nothing will suffice apart from a share bag of M&Ms, yes I said share bag and yes I’m going to bore you with every last detail, deal with it..
Peace, Love & False Lashes xo