Normally I worry that I worry too much. But this last week turned that on its head. We had two new diagnoses for two different children in the space of 24 hours: which is itself unsettling. But when two paediatric consultants - seeing different children - turn to you in the space of 24 hours and say in hushed tones "How do you cope?" you start to think, oh dear. Perhaps I am not worried enough.
The gym took a hit - actually, everything took a hit except nice fattening things like wine, white bread with peanut butter, chocolate and more wine. I did my best, honest I did, there were definitely times when I thought "I want cake NOW!" and heroically said to myself "No." But today I hopped on the scales and sighed. Oh DEAR. That's the problem with weight loss and exercise and all this healthy living malarkey, it all goes really well until something interesting or tiring or upsetting happens, or you have something else to do with your time, or you get sick or your children have a holiday or your children get sick or you get a new hobby or job. Apart from that, it's really straightforward. I did go to the gym yesterday, and it was kind of all right, except that I couldn't lose myself in the exercise the way I usually did. Random thoughts kept attacking me on the treadmill: scary monster-thoughts like
"This is really hard I want to stop. Oh my god it's like parenting except that I can't stop that even if I want to!"
"I don't know if I'm going to finish this exercise. That feels like the next fifteen years of my life. It doesn't matter how determined I am, just sometimes you run out of energy and can't do it any more. Now my legs are leaden, just like my heart."
Yes, I wallowed in self-pity and sweat. Wondering why I wasn't just at home wallowing in wine.
I did all right, yesterday, in the sense that I didn't run out of the gym screaming, I did a moderate amount of exercise and set my heart racing faster than the trainer thought it should (but then that was probably due to panic about the diagnoses, not the exercise itself). But I did feel as if I was fighting a cloud of worry, or rather a curtain of doubts: I could push through it, and keep going, but after a while another one came along. And I couldn't use my normal trick of eating-or-drinking-tea to drive away the worry, because I was on the treadmill or the elliptical trainer. So there I was, with my thumping heart and my panicky thoughts. Not much fun. It was hard not to feel that I'd have had more fun at home with the peanut butter and the wine.
Frankly, it was fear alone of the rising scales that sent me along again today. But as I hopped into the pool I realised that it was incredibly crowded, and that any chance of finding peace-and-tranquillity in the medium lane was doomed. There was no slow lane so elderly ladies waved themselves along on their back. I looked at the fast lane, and quailed at the muscle-bound racers preening themselves and drinking out of the sports bottles. Then I saw an aqua-aerobics class, just setting up. Oh well, I might as well, I thought. Otherwise I'll just go home and drink wine.
Now, I have always poured scorn on aqua-aerobics. I like swimming in the water, not jumping up and down. And it is fat old ladies waving noddles around. But you know what? Tonight, it was EXACTLY what I needed. I had to follow the instructions of the class trainer and concentrate on not moving my legs in the wrong direction. Which left no time for worries about parenting or children or whether I was going to finish the exercise. And - of course - aqua-aerobics is not as exhausting as the other classes, which meant I ended up feeling quite fit. In comparison to the other fat old ladies, of course.
Slowly it is starting to dawn on me that what I need is an array of fitness activities that I like, so that I can pick the one I am in the mood to manage. A nice easy gentle fitness class was just the ticket. Took the edge off my emotional pain, rather like a paracetemol. I'm still not sure if I'm too worried or not worried enough, but for tonight it doesn't really matter. I feel calmer. Now, where's the wine?
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
Great news!
OK, are you ready for this? My life is complete. I am officially overweight and not obese. Don't all clap at once. Yes, my BMI has been gently dipping downwards and it hit the magical 30. Well, if you stand on the scales first thing and shave your hair off for full lightness effect. (And maybe keep one foot on the floor. You mean you're not supposed to do that?) Woohoo, I am now only at HIGH and not VERY HIGH risk of heart disease, thank you New Zealand heart foundation. You've made my week. Not. Cream cake to celebrate, anyone?
I feel a bit disheartened because actually that reminds me quite how far I have to go. I have this regular fantasy, I walk into the gym looking like Blimp Woman. I climb on the treadmill/cycle/ellipical/rowing-torture machine, and I start running/biking/torturing myself. A while later, I go back into the changing rooms, and there I am, Slimline Underwear Model Woman, just as I looked when twenty-one, only with stretchmarks and a massive C-section scar. (Well look, fantasies have to have a little bit of reality in them, otherwise you wouldn't let yourself believe them, right? I mean, it would be like fantasising that then Tom Cruise comes into the gym and sees me. I would never think that, would I? Oh, all right, I would, I am the kind of sad woman who still fancies Tom Cruise even though I know he is smaller than me AND a Scientologist).
The point is, I am not quite sure why I feel depressed that I am ONLY overweight now (unless I weigh myself in the evenings, of course). Because looked at logically, I am doing quite well. If I was a friend of mine, I'd be slapping me on the back, saying "Jolly good! So proud of you! Keep going!" (And trying not to say "but I bet you put it all back on again in a year!")
But cos it's me, I feel sort of unworthy and useless. It's true, we are our own worst enemies.
That's one of the reasons going to the gym is actually pretty good, here in Glenfield. Because it's the antithesis of a sporty young person's gym, with beautiful bodies on display and a competitive atmosphere.. Today, as I wobbled my way through a mere 45-minute workout (give me a break! I had sushi to make! C'mon, priorities!) I noticed two elderly Indian women chatting together. In England we would say Asian, but here it is Indian because Asian means Far East, Japan, China or Korea, so apologies, I KNOW I don't know if they were actually Pakistani Bangladeshi Indian or Sri Lankan, but the point is they were exercising), taking great care not to get their headscarves tangled up as they chatted, I mean leisurely strolled, on the treadmill together. In front of them was an elderly white guy who I wished was wearing a few more layers, his legs and arms were so pale and scrawny they looked like chickens. Then there was a very large lady on an exercise bike. And the gym staff wandering around looking as if they couldn't quite understand why we were all there, we looked so amateurish. But we were all there, and we were all doing our best, and having some fun too I suspect. It was nice. Nearing forty as I am, I am supposed to hanker after regaining my youthful body. But fantasies about Tom Cruise aside, I rather appreciate the fact that I am nearing middle age. It seems a gentler, wiser pace of life, when you go to the gym to take care of your health rather than to pull a good-looking guy (not that I would say no to Tom Cruise, obv). And celebrating the fact that you are not actually officially obese first thing in the morning, that's a very healthy middle-aged thing to do. I like my elderly gym buddies. I am also starting to think that the Indian ladies were onto something. They had covered up so sensibly that you really couldn't work out if they were obese, overweight or not. They were just who they were, themselves, which is nice.
Note to self: Must NOT convert to traditional-style Hinduism or Islam or Orthodox Judaism JUST BECAUSE I might get the chance to wear flowing non-revealing clothes...
I feel a bit disheartened because actually that reminds me quite how far I have to go. I have this regular fantasy, I walk into the gym looking like Blimp Woman. I climb on the treadmill/cycle/ellipical/rowing-torture machine, and I start running/biking/torturing myself. A while later, I go back into the changing rooms, and there I am, Slimline Underwear Model Woman, just as I looked when twenty-one, only with stretchmarks and a massive C-section scar. (Well look, fantasies have to have a little bit of reality in them, otherwise you wouldn't let yourself believe them, right? I mean, it would be like fantasising that then Tom Cruise comes into the gym and sees me. I would never think that, would I? Oh, all right, I would, I am the kind of sad woman who still fancies Tom Cruise even though I know he is smaller than me AND a Scientologist).
The point is, I am not quite sure why I feel depressed that I am ONLY overweight now (unless I weigh myself in the evenings, of course). Because looked at logically, I am doing quite well. If I was a friend of mine, I'd be slapping me on the back, saying "Jolly good! So proud of you! Keep going!" (And trying not to say "but I bet you put it all back on again in a year!")
But cos it's me, I feel sort of unworthy and useless. It's true, we are our own worst enemies.
That's one of the reasons going to the gym is actually pretty good, here in Glenfield. Because it's the antithesis of a sporty young person's gym, with beautiful bodies on display and a competitive atmosphere.. Today, as I wobbled my way through a mere 45-minute workout (give me a break! I had sushi to make! C'mon, priorities!) I noticed two elderly Indian women chatting together. In England we would say Asian, but here it is Indian because Asian means Far East, Japan, China or Korea, so apologies, I KNOW I don't know if they were actually Pakistani Bangladeshi Indian or Sri Lankan, but the point is they were exercising), taking great care not to get their headscarves tangled up as they chatted, I mean leisurely strolled, on the treadmill together. In front of them was an elderly white guy who I wished was wearing a few more layers, his legs and arms were so pale and scrawny they looked like chickens. Then there was a very large lady on an exercise bike. And the gym staff wandering around looking as if they couldn't quite understand why we were all there, we looked so amateurish. But we were all there, and we were all doing our best, and having some fun too I suspect. It was nice. Nearing forty as I am, I am supposed to hanker after regaining my youthful body. But fantasies about Tom Cruise aside, I rather appreciate the fact that I am nearing middle age. It seems a gentler, wiser pace of life, when you go to the gym to take care of your health rather than to pull a good-looking guy (not that I would say no to Tom Cruise, obv). And celebrating the fact that you are not actually officially obese first thing in the morning, that's a very healthy middle-aged thing to do. I like my elderly gym buddies. I am also starting to think that the Indian ladies were onto something. They had covered up so sensibly that you really couldn't work out if they were obese, overweight or not. They were just who they were, themselves, which is nice.
Note to self: Must NOT convert to traditional-style Hinduism or Islam or Orthodox Judaism JUST BECAUSE I might get the chance to wear flowing non-revealing clothes...
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Outswum
Today was not a good swimming day. Oh, don't get me wrong, I am very pleased with myself for having got there, it still being school holidays: and it might have possibly used up about a quarter of the calories consumed with that yummy chocolate brownie at lunch. But in terms of TRAINING, you know, getting fitter and maybe one day able to swim that 1km in the sea, it was pretty dispiriting.
For one thing, I have managed to commit the idiotic act of buying a swimhat to keep my hair dry. Somehow, I chose the one made of Lycra. Not my finest hour. I am not sure what the point of a lycra swimming cap is, but it certainly ain't to keep my head dry. Furthermore, I had to deal with silly thoughts in my head such as "it's the school holidays! I can't exercise properly today, I'm exhausted from having looked after the children!" Well, the last bit is true. I kept finding myself thinking "oh my goodness the zoo trip was tiring" when I should have been focusing on how many lengths I'd done. Never mind, I thought, just keep going and you'll get in the mood eventually.
Which would probably have happened if it hadn't been for YellowHattedSuperSwimmer in my lane. Who really, really, really, managed to ruin my day.
First of all, what is a superswimmer doing in the medium lane anyway? She was swimming at about twice the pace of everyone else, overtaking ostentatiously and splashing water as she did so. Was this some kind of point she was trying to make: "Oh, you think this is fast? Wait and see what I'd be doing if I was TRYING to swim at anything like my maximum speed."
Second of all, she clearly had the stamina of a, um, an animal that has a lot of stamina. Maybe a camel. (She certainly had the face for one). She swam lengths the way the rest of us swam metres: she was fast AND she was able to go on for longer than any of us. Oh, and she was really old-looking too, which made it worse. Outswum by Duracell Granny. And did I mention that she kept kicking water in my face?
Third of all, she could do these supercool flip turn things like they do in the Olympics. I found this profoundly irritating. After all, isn't the POINT of finishing a length to hang onto the side for a bit, breathe deeply and regain some composure? Do we really have to slap headfirst into the wall, leap off again like an elastic band and carry on? Where's the slowing-down-and-not-exercising potential in that? AND she had a proper swimming cap made of silicon.
Oh, I didn't like her one bit at all. But there will be more like her in coming weeks. The thing is, it's soon going to be the Harbour Crossing, an ocean swim of 2.8km that I would absolutely love to do if I was as tenacious and effective in the water as I am fond of eating cake. They will all be there in the pool in the next eight weeks, zipping up and down and splashing water in my face. And I know the reason I was so irritated by YellowHatSuperWoman, it is because I am so jealous. I would LOVE to be her, zipping up and down the pool as if it was easy. Sometimes she put things on her hands and swam with them - I would like to hope they were flippers, making it easier, but actually they were probably weights. Because she is Superswimmer. As opposed to me. I am more of a Flopper.
But what I really want, I decided today whilst I trailed in her wake forlornly, is my own body back, not anybody else's. Three pregnancies, seven years of running after small children. I don't really feel as if my body belongs to me any more. It is lumpy in all the wrong places and it aches when I do anything more adventurous than walk across the room. I am carrying extra weight, the equivalent of two 10kg bags of potatoes: I can't feel it but it can't be healthy. Even a lycra swimsuit isn't going to put that right. Put in those terms, getting fit again feels like an impossible task. Frustrating as it is to be outswum by Duracell Granny, she's not my enemy. If I have one, it's the too-unhealthy-to-change feelings that swim through my head from time to time. Against that, a strong pulse of "I want my body back! I want to feel like ME again!" No, I don't want to be SuperswimmerYellowHat. Even if she has swum for two hours a day for twenty years. But I would like to feel a bit more like me.
Oh, and I want a swimming cap that keeps my hair dry, too.
For one thing, I have managed to commit the idiotic act of buying a swimhat to keep my hair dry. Somehow, I chose the one made of Lycra. Not my finest hour. I am not sure what the point of a lycra swimming cap is, but it certainly ain't to keep my head dry. Furthermore, I had to deal with silly thoughts in my head such as "it's the school holidays! I can't exercise properly today, I'm exhausted from having looked after the children!" Well, the last bit is true. I kept finding myself thinking "oh my goodness the zoo trip was tiring" when I should have been focusing on how many lengths I'd done. Never mind, I thought, just keep going and you'll get in the mood eventually.
Which would probably have happened if it hadn't been for YellowHattedSuperSwimmer in my lane. Who really, really, really, managed to ruin my day.
First of all, what is a superswimmer doing in the medium lane anyway? She was swimming at about twice the pace of everyone else, overtaking ostentatiously and splashing water as she did so. Was this some kind of point she was trying to make: "Oh, you think this is fast? Wait and see what I'd be doing if I was TRYING to swim at anything like my maximum speed."
Second of all, she clearly had the stamina of a, um, an animal that has a lot of stamina. Maybe a camel. (She certainly had the face for one). She swam lengths the way the rest of us swam metres: she was fast AND she was able to go on for longer than any of us. Oh, and she was really old-looking too, which made it worse. Outswum by Duracell Granny. And did I mention that she kept kicking water in my face?
Third of all, she could do these supercool flip turn things like they do in the Olympics. I found this profoundly irritating. After all, isn't the POINT of finishing a length to hang onto the side for a bit, breathe deeply and regain some composure? Do we really have to slap headfirst into the wall, leap off again like an elastic band and carry on? Where's the slowing-down-and-not-exercising potential in that? AND she had a proper swimming cap made of silicon.
Oh, I didn't like her one bit at all. But there will be more like her in coming weeks. The thing is, it's soon going to be the Harbour Crossing, an ocean swim of 2.8km that I would absolutely love to do if I was as tenacious and effective in the water as I am fond of eating cake. They will all be there in the pool in the next eight weeks, zipping up and down and splashing water in my face. And I know the reason I was so irritated by YellowHatSuperWoman, it is because I am so jealous. I would LOVE to be her, zipping up and down the pool as if it was easy. Sometimes she put things on her hands and swam with them - I would like to hope they were flippers, making it easier, but actually they were probably weights. Because she is Superswimmer. As opposed to me. I am more of a Flopper.
But what I really want, I decided today whilst I trailed in her wake forlornly, is my own body back, not anybody else's. Three pregnancies, seven years of running after small children. I don't really feel as if my body belongs to me any more. It is lumpy in all the wrong places and it aches when I do anything more adventurous than walk across the room. I am carrying extra weight, the equivalent of two 10kg bags of potatoes: I can't feel it but it can't be healthy. Even a lycra swimsuit isn't going to put that right. Put in those terms, getting fit again feels like an impossible task. Frustrating as it is to be outswum by Duracell Granny, she's not my enemy. If I have one, it's the too-unhealthy-to-change feelings that swim through my head from time to time. Against that, a strong pulse of "I want my body back! I want to feel like ME again!" No, I don't want to be SuperswimmerYellowHat. Even if she has swum for two hours a day for twenty years. But I would like to feel a bit more like me.
Oh, and I want a swimming cap that keeps my hair dry, too.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
The exercise desert that is school holidays
We're into Day Three of the school holidays. So far we've had two trips to hospital, one complaint to a medical services manager and one grumpy letter to a consultant drafted on my computer. Relating to different medical conditions. Unsurprisingly, I am feeling a little bit like a used teabag. This isn't good from a GETTING FIT! AND HEALTHY! perspective because obviously, you need a bit of time to yourself to exercise, and also a bit of spare energy and enthusiasm. Neither of these have been in particularly plentiful supply this week. However, I am doing my best. Specifically, I am trying to avoid my usual holiday strategy of
"Oh my Lord I have to spend eleven hours on my own with the kids how am I going to cope? I know, chocolate. What am I going to do with them next? I think it might be time for some more chocolate. Oh look, they're fighting, quick, distract them, here are some chocolate biscuits, yes I think I'll have some too..."
I am getting to the gym here and there. But my children keep messing up my exercise schedule with inconvenient needs for urgent trips to hospital. How very dare they. Do they not know how tempting those hospital snack machines are? Especially at teatime. We refused some unnecessary repeats of blood tests for one of my boys this week, at the time I thought I was being a protective parent but now I think about it, I think I was just trying to get out of the hospital before I succumbed to the temptation of eating every last Cheesy Biscuit in the vending machine. Anyway, it's holiday season, my time is not my own, yadayada, I am meant to be making an amazing holiday experience that they will look back upon with fondness in years to come. (Today this involved a lot of television, bread and jam. Look, it's tough creating mindblowing life-enhancing educational family experiences when one of your kids has just had a cast off his broken leg and won't get off the sofa).
So since I can't get to the gym as often as I want to I am trying to get to the snack cupboard a little less often. In the past I have found Weightwatchers Online a reasonably effective way of trimming my waistline but someone recommended MyFitnessPal, which is a smiilar thing, only based on calories instead of points. I am not sure I like this. The nice thing about Points was you earnt them: ooh, I have 24 Points today! It was like a little reward. Calories, however, are very dull and worthy. No getting away from it, you can't get excited about calories in the same way. And unlike WW, there are no "free" foods. You an't just pig out on something guiltlessly. There is something unutterably depressing about looking at a carrot, wondering if you should eat it, and working out that that would equate to about five minutes on the treadmill in the gym. And then I feel guilty for whinging about the gym because at least I CAN walk and run reliably, unlike one of my boys whose legs gave out completely for a period of time this week - the mystery arthritis-like ailment, we are no closer to a diagnosis than we were - and then the other one is still recovering from his broken leg. (That's right, the one that I broke). So there is an entire vortex of mother-guilt that I can tap into when I want to feel bad about myself. For which, of course, the only cure is chocolate.
You know what I really need to cheer me up? A night out. Ooh, in fact, I have two nights this week: husband, son and I are having a big boys night out on Friday at an all-you-can-eat local buffet restaurant...and then the next night, I'm going out with the ladies from school to, um, a set menu at a Chinese restaurant. So, erm, yes, this holidays needs to be about weight maintenance, that's it, I'm not trying to lose any I am just trying not to undo all of the good work of the last month. Besides, I'm SURE if I focus on the lovely company I won't eat and drink so much. Anyway, Chinese restaurants and buffets can be worked off with a bit of extra exercise next week, right?
"Oh my Lord I have to spend eleven hours on my own with the kids how am I going to cope? I know, chocolate. What am I going to do with them next? I think it might be time for some more chocolate. Oh look, they're fighting, quick, distract them, here are some chocolate biscuits, yes I think I'll have some too..."
I am getting to the gym here and there. But my children keep messing up my exercise schedule with inconvenient needs for urgent trips to hospital. How very dare they. Do they not know how tempting those hospital snack machines are? Especially at teatime. We refused some unnecessary repeats of blood tests for one of my boys this week, at the time I thought I was being a protective parent but now I think about it, I think I was just trying to get out of the hospital before I succumbed to the temptation of eating every last Cheesy Biscuit in the vending machine. Anyway, it's holiday season, my time is not my own, yadayada, I am meant to be making an amazing holiday experience that they will look back upon with fondness in years to come. (Today this involved a lot of television, bread and jam. Look, it's tough creating mindblowing life-enhancing educational family experiences when one of your kids has just had a cast off his broken leg and won't get off the sofa).
So since I can't get to the gym as often as I want to I am trying to get to the snack cupboard a little less often. In the past I have found Weightwatchers Online a reasonably effective way of trimming my waistline but someone recommended MyFitnessPal, which is a smiilar thing, only based on calories instead of points. I am not sure I like this. The nice thing about Points was you earnt them: ooh, I have 24 Points today! It was like a little reward. Calories, however, are very dull and worthy. No getting away from it, you can't get excited about calories in the same way. And unlike WW, there are no "free" foods. You an't just pig out on something guiltlessly. There is something unutterably depressing about looking at a carrot, wondering if you should eat it, and working out that that would equate to about five minutes on the treadmill in the gym. And then I feel guilty for whinging about the gym because at least I CAN walk and run reliably, unlike one of my boys whose legs gave out completely for a period of time this week - the mystery arthritis-like ailment, we are no closer to a diagnosis than we were - and then the other one is still recovering from his broken leg. (That's right, the one that I broke). So there is an entire vortex of mother-guilt that I can tap into when I want to feel bad about myself. For which, of course, the only cure is chocolate.
You know what I really need to cheer me up? A night out. Ooh, in fact, I have two nights this week: husband, son and I are having a big boys night out on Friday at an all-you-can-eat local buffet restaurant...and then the next night, I'm going out with the ladies from school to, um, a set menu at a Chinese restaurant. So, erm, yes, this holidays needs to be about weight maintenance, that's it, I'm not trying to lose any I am just trying not to undo all of the good work of the last month. Besides, I'm SURE if I focus on the lovely company I won't eat and drink so much. Anyway, Chinese restaurants and buffets can be worked off with a bit of extra exercise next week, right?
Friday, September 28, 2012
Things That Exercise Cannot Achieve
This morning was another unpromising gym day. I was sleep-deprived - again - my eldest has decided to wake us all up as soon as he wakes, which is currently five am. SmallButDetermined was complaining of a stomach ache, my friend with whom I was planning to meet and drink coffee in the cafe - er I mean go to a combat class - had a child off school too. You can beat off the Anti-Exercise Leprechauns whispering in your ear, but you cannot fight the obstacle of a sick child. So I went to my friend's house and we drank tea and put the world to rights instead. Then I came home and slept. This is something that I have learnt this week: that exercise can do many wonderful things, but it cannot put right the drained and grumpy feeling of not having had enough sleep. You have to go to bed for that. Someone should tell babies. And my son.
Which kind of makes me feel better about not having exercised much in the last couple of years because I have just emerged from the hell of sleep-deprivation. My middle son didn't sleep well for two and a half years: he would wake up at midnight and keep me awake too, often until two, three or four in the morning. Somehow I managed to stagger on but no wonder I didn't have the energy for exercising, I barely had the energy to make it through the morning. This week has reassured me that trying to exercise at that point in my life would probably have been a waste of time. Exercise. Not a Cure for Exhaustion.
I can also testify that exercise is a remarkably ineffectual way to lose weight if you are following your workouts by a large cappucino, then icecream with the children, and extra chocolate in the evenings. Must try harder to avoid the snack cupboard, Cumulus. Exercise can also be bad for the wallet: not only does it cost money to use the gym, but then you need to buy trousers that don't fall down when you run, and then you need to buy another pair because the new pair that you bought in the sales were fleece-lined and clearly designed to keep one warm when on a winter walk across the Arctic without a coat. Not terribly intelligent purchasing for a sub-tropical climate at the beginning of the warm season. Also, exercise is spelling doom to my greying underclothes. They are rags and tatters. I do a daily convoluted dance of in the communal changingrooms. Doubtless the other women think I am excessively modest but really I am just trying to get my trousers on before the remnants of my knickers fall to the floor. God knows what would happen if I wore a skirt.
But the most insidiously dangerous thing about exercise, I have found, is the ludicrous sense of perfectionism that it breeds. I can't go to the gym TODAY, I think when I realise I feel a little less than perfect, I really don't feel like pushing myself hard. And yesterday or the day before I did really well, more than I'd ever done before, that was fabulous, I won't match it today. And that will be dispiriting and make me want to give up. And I don't want that, so I'll avoid the gym today. Yes, these really are the thoughts the little anti-exercise leprechauns whisper convincingly in my ear.
Today I took myself firmly in hand. Cumulus, I said, just go for ten minutes. You've had a sleep. Sit on a bike or something. I wandered in, scowled at the equipment, and decided to give the cross-trainer ago because I'd never used it before. Ooh, cross-trainer is lovely. Swish swish swish, I like this. Then I sat back and went on the cycle. Ooh yes, great. Look how many calories I've burnt. That must be low-intensity training then, I didn't try to beat any records but I just worked out for a bit and felt calm and happy. Ooh, now I remember, this kind of low-intensity training is really great for weight-loss. I left the gym feeling energised but not exhausted. Ooh, that was nice, I thought.
So I've celebrated my weightloss by eating a huge takeaway pizza. That's what the leprechauns said to do, of course.
Which kind of makes me feel better about not having exercised much in the last couple of years because I have just emerged from the hell of sleep-deprivation. My middle son didn't sleep well for two and a half years: he would wake up at midnight and keep me awake too, often until two, three or four in the morning. Somehow I managed to stagger on but no wonder I didn't have the energy for exercising, I barely had the energy to make it through the morning. This week has reassured me that trying to exercise at that point in my life would probably have been a waste of time. Exercise. Not a Cure for Exhaustion.
I can also testify that exercise is a remarkably ineffectual way to lose weight if you are following your workouts by a large cappucino, then icecream with the children, and extra chocolate in the evenings. Must try harder to avoid the snack cupboard, Cumulus. Exercise can also be bad for the wallet: not only does it cost money to use the gym, but then you need to buy trousers that don't fall down when you run, and then you need to buy another pair because the new pair that you bought in the sales were fleece-lined and clearly designed to keep one warm when on a winter walk across the Arctic without a coat. Not terribly intelligent purchasing for a sub-tropical climate at the beginning of the warm season. Also, exercise is spelling doom to my greying underclothes. They are rags and tatters. I do a daily convoluted dance of in the communal changingrooms. Doubtless the other women think I am excessively modest but really I am just trying to get my trousers on before the remnants of my knickers fall to the floor. God knows what would happen if I wore a skirt.
But the most insidiously dangerous thing about exercise, I have found, is the ludicrous sense of perfectionism that it breeds. I can't go to the gym TODAY, I think when I realise I feel a little less than perfect, I really don't feel like pushing myself hard. And yesterday or the day before I did really well, more than I'd ever done before, that was fabulous, I won't match it today. And that will be dispiriting and make me want to give up. And I don't want that, so I'll avoid the gym today. Yes, these really are the thoughts the little anti-exercise leprechauns whisper convincingly in my ear.
Today I took myself firmly in hand. Cumulus, I said, just go for ten minutes. You've had a sleep. Sit on a bike or something. I wandered in, scowled at the equipment, and decided to give the cross-trainer ago because I'd never used it before. Ooh, cross-trainer is lovely. Swish swish swish, I like this. Then I sat back and went on the cycle. Ooh yes, great. Look how many calories I've burnt. That must be low-intensity training then, I didn't try to beat any records but I just worked out for a bit and felt calm and happy. Ooh, now I remember, this kind of low-intensity training is really great for weight-loss. I left the gym feeling energised but not exhausted. Ooh, that was nice, I thought.
So I've celebrated my weightloss by eating a huge takeaway pizza. That's what the leprechauns said to do, of course.
Turning Up
So I made it back to the gym, woohoo. And I did a couple of days pounding the treadmill quite happily, managed 3.2 km in 30 minutes which when you think I could only do 2 minutes of running three weeks ago, isn't bad. Quite encouraging in fact. But obviously the little Pixies Of Doubt were rattled by my determination, and when I went for a swim today, they came out in force, dancing around me with their little wee pitchforks and signs saying "Give up, go home, have some cake." I almost got out of the pool after five minutes, so unusually grumbly and unimpressed by life was I.
Part of the reason was simple - I'd had a bad night's sleep, and I'm still exhausted now. Another part of the reason was that I had actually been quite fired up by the running thing, felt very proud of myself and the little twinkling lights saying I was not quite as unfit as I thought. I liked the high-tech feel of the gym (at least, I like it when it is saying good things like "3k." Not so much when it is telling me that I have run forever and only burnt enough calories to have half a digestive biscuit). It was a bit of a come-down to be back in the water, splashing around with not so much as a flashing display telling me I was still moving.
Plus I can get frightened in the water, which doesn't happen in the gym: I mean, in the gym I can wonder if I am going to live through the next five minutes, but if I decide not, I can always push a button and go down a level. In the pool, if I am doing freestyle - it only happens when I am doing freestyle, which is rather awkward considering it is the stroke I shall have to use if I do ever manage my open-sea swim - I can start to get panicky and disorientated. I wonder if I am going to stop breathing soon, or magically lose the use of my arms and drop to the bottom, or something else equally far-fetched. This is a nuisance, because it means that I lose my focus and want to stop. And it is particularly frustrating because now I am a leetle leetle bit fitter, I can physically do more than two lengths of freestyle at a time before wanting to gasp and puff my way into the spa pool immediately.
But psychologically, ridiculously, I struggle.
So today I ended up only doing forty lengths, but ten of them in a row were freestyle, and that was huge, really amazing, I'm astonished that I managed it. I could have flogged myself a little further, but I had a big meeting at school to get to, and I didn't want to be too tired for that. Oh, and I asked the lifeguard to show me how to do freestyle and it turned out I was doing it all wrong. So that was, erm, dispiriting. And then slightly less dispiriting when I did it his way and it worked.
Sometimes it's OK just to have an average workout. I'm not sure I completely won against the Pixies of Self-Doubt, but then sometimes you don't need to. Sometimes it's just enough to turn up.
Part of the reason was simple - I'd had a bad night's sleep, and I'm still exhausted now. Another part of the reason was that I had actually been quite fired up by the running thing, felt very proud of myself and the little twinkling lights saying I was not quite as unfit as I thought. I liked the high-tech feel of the gym (at least, I like it when it is saying good things like "3k." Not so much when it is telling me that I have run forever and only burnt enough calories to have half a digestive biscuit). It was a bit of a come-down to be back in the water, splashing around with not so much as a flashing display telling me I was still moving.
Plus I can get frightened in the water, which doesn't happen in the gym: I mean, in the gym I can wonder if I am going to live through the next five minutes, but if I decide not, I can always push a button and go down a level. In the pool, if I am doing freestyle - it only happens when I am doing freestyle, which is rather awkward considering it is the stroke I shall have to use if I do ever manage my open-sea swim - I can start to get panicky and disorientated. I wonder if I am going to stop breathing soon, or magically lose the use of my arms and drop to the bottom, or something else equally far-fetched. This is a nuisance, because it means that I lose my focus and want to stop. And it is particularly frustrating because now I am a leetle leetle bit fitter, I can physically do more than two lengths of freestyle at a time before wanting to gasp and puff my way into the spa pool immediately.
But psychologically, ridiculously, I struggle.
So today I ended up only doing forty lengths, but ten of them in a row were freestyle, and that was huge, really amazing, I'm astonished that I managed it. I could have flogged myself a little further, but I had a big meeting at school to get to, and I didn't want to be too tired for that. Oh, and I asked the lifeguard to show me how to do freestyle and it turned out I was doing it all wrong. So that was, erm, dispiriting. And then slightly less dispiriting when I did it his way and it worked.
Sometimes it's OK just to have an average workout. I'm not sure I completely won against the Pixies of Self-Doubt, but then sometimes you don't need to. Sometimes it's just enough to turn up.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
So obviously I will never make it to the gym again.
The Anti-Exercise Brigade of Doubts are out in force, running amok over the pitiful remains of my good intentions. I will never, ever exercise again. Even though I would like to, I have hit an insurmountable obstacle. The reason? I have what I thought was quite a mild cold but which has wiped me out. I feel like death warmed up, and spent much of the afternoon asleep, having shoved Eldest (who was off school with same ailment) in front of the television with strict instructions not to move.
Obviously now I rationalise it to myself, the clear certainty that this spells doom to my good intentions and I will never exercise again is possibly a LITTLE pessimistic. But I have form for giving up exercise because I get a cold: the pattern, repeated several times over twenty years, goes like this.
Cumulus Day One: I know, I'll exercise and get fit.
Cumulus Day Two, Three and Four: Aren't I doing well?
Cumulus Day Five: Oh no! I'm ill! Can't exercise today, can't get out of bed. Still, back to the treadmill tomorrow.
Cumulus Day Six: Yeah, tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.
Cumulus Day Eight: Still feel a bit poorly, better not do any exercise till I feel better.
Cumulus Day Twelve: Exercise? What's that again? I'm not sure, thinking about it makes me worried though, better eat some cake until I feel better.
Comfort food is what gets me through colds, I find. This is awkward too, given that the whole point is that I am meant to be - well, not dieting exactly, that spells willpower and lots of lecttuce - but, you know, cutting down on crap. Crap like those very nice McVities Digestives my husband bought me to assuage a complaint about the rubbish biscuits they have in NZ. I'm heroically avoiding them, and instead eating vast slices of the date and walnut loaf made for me by a kind friend. In between her marathon training. Yes, she is superhuman. Date and walnut loaf is healthy, right? ALMOST as good as exercising.
However, on the plus side I notice that on a day like today, when the gym was genuinely impossible, I am prone to think of exercise - gym or swim or class - with fond, romantic thoughts. I think "oh, wouldn't it be lovely to go for a swim" in the comfortable sort of way you think affectionately about seeing Great Uncle John, a distant and faraway relative living in another country. You can spend hours thinking about how nice it would be to see Great Uncle John. You can get quite maudlin about the way in which distance, time and finances divide you. And you totally forget the fact that he drives you mad and you can't spend more than ten minutes in the same room without wanting to bop him one. That's me and exercise today. An awfully good idea. When I'm well again, of course. Now, where's that date loaf?
Honestly, I do have good intentions of making it back to the gym or pool, at the point when I can hold a simple conversation and cross the room without needing to blow my nose on the way. Except that - as any of you with large families will know - it's not quite as simple. So far I have the bug, and so does Eldest. So he's off school. Middle and SmallButDetermined, however, show no signs of illhealth, which means we are trapped at the beginning of a cycle. They will both inevitably succumb, probably in turn, they will each need a day or two at home, and each will mean NO OPPORTUNITY TO GO TO THE GYM. The virus will probably mutate and my eldest will get it a second time. Husband is working late at the moment so evenings are a no-no. Unless, ha ha ha, I get up at 5.30 am and go swimming then. Ha ha ha ha. So possibly I shall be exercising again at the end of October.
No wonder so few Olympic athletes are parents. Now, where's that date loaf?
Obviously now I rationalise it to myself, the clear certainty that this spells doom to my good intentions and I will never exercise again is possibly a LITTLE pessimistic. But I have form for giving up exercise because I get a cold: the pattern, repeated several times over twenty years, goes like this.
Cumulus Day One: I know, I'll exercise and get fit.
Cumulus Day Two, Three and Four: Aren't I doing well?
Cumulus Day Five: Oh no! I'm ill! Can't exercise today, can't get out of bed. Still, back to the treadmill tomorrow.
Cumulus Day Six: Yeah, tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.
Cumulus Day Eight: Still feel a bit poorly, better not do any exercise till I feel better.
Cumulus Day Twelve: Exercise? What's that again? I'm not sure, thinking about it makes me worried though, better eat some cake until I feel better.
Comfort food is what gets me through colds, I find. This is awkward too, given that the whole point is that I am meant to be - well, not dieting exactly, that spells willpower and lots of lecttuce - but, you know, cutting down on crap. Crap like those very nice McVities Digestives my husband bought me to assuage a complaint about the rubbish biscuits they have in NZ. I'm heroically avoiding them, and instead eating vast slices of the date and walnut loaf made for me by a kind friend. In between her marathon training. Yes, she is superhuman. Date and walnut loaf is healthy, right? ALMOST as good as exercising.
However, on the plus side I notice that on a day like today, when the gym was genuinely impossible, I am prone to think of exercise - gym or swim or class - with fond, romantic thoughts. I think "oh, wouldn't it be lovely to go for a swim" in the comfortable sort of way you think affectionately about seeing Great Uncle John, a distant and faraway relative living in another country. You can spend hours thinking about how nice it would be to see Great Uncle John. You can get quite maudlin about the way in which distance, time and finances divide you. And you totally forget the fact that he drives you mad and you can't spend more than ten minutes in the same room without wanting to bop him one. That's me and exercise today. An awfully good idea. When I'm well again, of course. Now, where's that date loaf?
Honestly, I do have good intentions of making it back to the gym or pool, at the point when I can hold a simple conversation and cross the room without needing to blow my nose on the way. Except that - as any of you with large families will know - it's not quite as simple. So far I have the bug, and so does Eldest. So he's off school. Middle and SmallButDetermined, however, show no signs of illhealth, which means we are trapped at the beginning of a cycle. They will both inevitably succumb, probably in turn, they will each need a day or two at home, and each will mean NO OPPORTUNITY TO GO TO THE GYM. The virus will probably mutate and my eldest will get it a second time. Husband is working late at the moment so evenings are a no-no. Unless, ha ha ha, I get up at 5.30 am and go swimming then. Ha ha ha ha. So possibly I shall be exercising again at the end of October.
No wonder so few Olympic athletes are parents. Now, where's that date loaf?
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