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.
Friday, September 28, 2012
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?
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Rookie Error No.1: please come and laugh at me
The only exercise and lifestyle blogs I have ever read have been full of optimism and excitement. Plus exclamation marks and smileys.
"Made it to the gym today!!!!!!!"
"Feeling AMAZING! So glad I started underwater Scottish pole-dancing!"
"My life is SO MUCH BETTER since I tried these fancy new diet pills made out of human intestine, they gross you out so much that you don't want to eat anything else all day! :-)!!"
You will be relieved to know that this blog is not going to be like that. Living in the land of cheery can-do optimism as I do, I like to pride myself on a certain British sourness, a disinclination to believe that today was just the BEST DAY EVER unless at the very least you have compared it to some of the other good days you have been fortunate to have. Also, whilst I will confess to enjoying the exercise thing more than I anticipated, it isn't up there with a lavish wine-tasting, drugs or wild group sex (so I hear, she says hastily, glancing at the unworn clerical attire sitting in the cupboard). So I feel disclined to rave. I could, if pushed, agree that exercising feels at times QUITE NICE, and is almost up there with a decent cup of tea on a good day: but you know, a cup of tea takes much less effort and the rewards are instantaneous.
But I have got to find something to be positive about, otherwise I won't go back to the gym, will I? So in the spirit of positive thinking I am sharing my stupid mistakes, so you can all laugh at me. Thus my misadventures at the gym will provide some form of public service. And hopefully they will remind me not to be so bloody stupid again.
Me: ooh, I really feel a bit thirsty, I'd love a drink, running a bit late though, I know, I'll have one in the gym. Oh no, I'd rather swim. Must make sure boobs don't fall out of my costume again. Ooh, this swimming lark is great isn't it, I'm feeling fabulous. Bit tired now, fancy a dip in that warm spa bath. Good heavens how nice, I am not the fattest person here today. Hello, elderly Asian lady taking up half the spa, you are my new best friend. Ooh look, nice bit of eye-candy there. Mustn't look like I'm staring, don't want him to be freaked out by being leched by strange-podgy-woman. He's looking at me, how - oh my GOD! My boob has popped out of my costume again! I am so sorry random goodlooking man, you must think I am flashing you! Right, that's it, back into the pool. I'm swimming until the shame ebbs away, good heavens, I've nearly done 2 km. If you don't count the ten-minute break in the middle of course. Must finish that. Gosh, that wasn't too bad at all, I feel amazing (mad endorphin rush during which I make wild plans for longdistance swimming), right, must pick up SmallButDetermined and head for the car, oh my God I am going to die. I can't sit. I can't breathe. I am DEAD. How odd. I didn't think I'd trained that hard. Right, well, I'll go home and have a cup of tea. Good lord, caffeine hasn't worked, I am going to DIE...it's half an hour later and I am still reeling, have to be on form for school pick-up soon, what am I going to do?
And then, of course, I realised. I was dehydrated. Two litres of water later, and I felt quite normal again. So. If you are going to exercise, it helps to drink water too. Just like the experts tell you. Who'd a thought it?
Now I just have to solve the problem of my permanently escaping boobs.
"Made it to the gym today!!!!!!!"
"Feeling AMAZING! So glad I started underwater Scottish pole-dancing!"
"My life is SO MUCH BETTER since I tried these fancy new diet pills made out of human intestine, they gross you out so much that you don't want to eat anything else all day! :-)!!"
You will be relieved to know that this blog is not going to be like that. Living in the land of cheery can-do optimism as I do, I like to pride myself on a certain British sourness, a disinclination to believe that today was just the BEST DAY EVER unless at the very least you have compared it to some of the other good days you have been fortunate to have. Also, whilst I will confess to enjoying the exercise thing more than I anticipated, it isn't up there with a lavish wine-tasting, drugs or wild group sex (so I hear, she says hastily, glancing at the unworn clerical attire sitting in the cupboard). So I feel disclined to rave. I could, if pushed, agree that exercising feels at times QUITE NICE, and is almost up there with a decent cup of tea on a good day: but you know, a cup of tea takes much less effort and the rewards are instantaneous.
But I have got to find something to be positive about, otherwise I won't go back to the gym, will I? So in the spirit of positive thinking I am sharing my stupid mistakes, so you can all laugh at me. Thus my misadventures at the gym will provide some form of public service. And hopefully they will remind me not to be so bloody stupid again.
Me: ooh, I really feel a bit thirsty, I'd love a drink, running a bit late though, I know, I'll have one in the gym. Oh no, I'd rather swim. Must make sure boobs don't fall out of my costume again. Ooh, this swimming lark is great isn't it, I'm feeling fabulous. Bit tired now, fancy a dip in that warm spa bath. Good heavens how nice, I am not the fattest person here today. Hello, elderly Asian lady taking up half the spa, you are my new best friend. Ooh look, nice bit of eye-candy there. Mustn't look like I'm staring, don't want him to be freaked out by being leched by strange-podgy-woman. He's looking at me, how - oh my GOD! My boob has popped out of my costume again! I am so sorry random goodlooking man, you must think I am flashing you! Right, that's it, back into the pool. I'm swimming until the shame ebbs away, good heavens, I've nearly done 2 km. If you don't count the ten-minute break in the middle of course. Must finish that. Gosh, that wasn't too bad at all, I feel amazing (mad endorphin rush during which I make wild plans for longdistance swimming), right, must pick up SmallButDetermined and head for the car, oh my God I am going to die. I can't sit. I can't breathe. I am DEAD. How odd. I didn't think I'd trained that hard. Right, well, I'll go home and have a cup of tea. Good lord, caffeine hasn't worked, I am going to DIE...it's half an hour later and I am still reeling, have to be on form for school pick-up soon, what am I going to do?
And then, of course, I realised. I was dehydrated. Two litres of water later, and I felt quite normal again. So. If you are going to exercise, it helps to drink water too. Just like the experts tell you. Who'd a thought it?
Now I just have to solve the problem of my permanently escaping boobs.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Nothing for Charity
Along with the goals (see previous post for the necessary unrealistic optimism), I am setting myself some rules.
Nothing for Charity.
This may seem an odd one. I am the mum of three kids with SN, I have been lucky enough to receive charitable support for my family in many different areas, from holidays to specialist equipment to grants for therapy. Why would I begrudge picking a charity to sponsor me, as I lumber towards slightly less-podgy fitness? Why would I not want to ask my friends for a bit of generosity, financial support?
The answer is multi-faceted. Partly I have a deep, almost instinctive discomfort at the idea of someone sponsoring me to do something I want and need to do anyway. Partly I am aware that actually, I rather like my friends, particularly the many I have made and kept through FB and the like, and I don't want to put them off, become one of those people who exploits those connections by asking for funds, even for a worthy cause. Partly I don't feel that I want anything to make this more pressured, I don't want the possibly quite tough and dreary job of getting fit to be overlaid with anything worthy or self-sacrificing whatsoever. I have quite enough of that in the rest of my life. And partly, I just feel, well, you know, I am tired of begging for money and help for my kids, I don't have the heart and energy right now to do it for anyone else. So, if you're reading, feel safe. You can keep in touch and wish me luck without being asked for a tenner.
Nothing That Will Injure Me
I am being really careful to STOP, slow down, or change direction, any time I feel a little pull or a tug. Devil-May-Care Cumulus Young Version would not have done this. She would have pushed herself and waited for the pain to subside. But Devil-May-Care Young Cumulus did not have three children to look after, and a body that kept being injured by the normal routine of lifting and carrying small bodies, well, bodies that are needing to be carried and lifted slightly longer than the average child. The idea is health, not killing myself. The last thing I need is to wreck my knees or feet. Why, that would just give me more excuses to stop exercising.
Not Getting Angry With Myself For Being So Rubbish At Stuff
One of the great things, and frankly there weren't many, about the collection of diagnoses that my children have acquired over the last few years, was realising that actually I was almost certainly dyspraxic, rather than just mysteriously clumsy and rubbish at sport. This is helping me in the water, and in the gym, and also in the exercise classes I have very foolishly been taking. Instead of getting angry that I can't keep up with everyone else, that I can't follow simple steps and that when I try to turn my head to breathe in the pool I take in more water than a whale, I stop and think. I remind myself that I am not built like everyone else, that I need to break what I am learning into small steps, that I may take longer to learn the basics and never keep up with a dance routine, but that that is OK, because it is not a failure on my part, just the way God made me and I must accept that and work with the body I have, rather than the imaginary perfect one I would like. So I take a deep breath (OK, not in the water) and get on with what I can manage. I have, in short, learnt to have patience with myself, the same way I try to have patience with my kids.
Nothing for Charity.
This may seem an odd one. I am the mum of three kids with SN, I have been lucky enough to receive charitable support for my family in many different areas, from holidays to specialist equipment to grants for therapy. Why would I begrudge picking a charity to sponsor me, as I lumber towards slightly less-podgy fitness? Why would I not want to ask my friends for a bit of generosity, financial support?
The answer is multi-faceted. Partly I have a deep, almost instinctive discomfort at the idea of someone sponsoring me to do something I want and need to do anyway. Partly I am aware that actually, I rather like my friends, particularly the many I have made and kept through FB and the like, and I don't want to put them off, become one of those people who exploits those connections by asking for funds, even for a worthy cause. Partly I don't feel that I want anything to make this more pressured, I don't want the possibly quite tough and dreary job of getting fit to be overlaid with anything worthy or self-sacrificing whatsoever. I have quite enough of that in the rest of my life. And partly, I just feel, well, you know, I am tired of begging for money and help for my kids, I don't have the heart and energy right now to do it for anyone else. So, if you're reading, feel safe. You can keep in touch and wish me luck without being asked for a tenner.
Nothing That Will Injure Me
I am being really careful to STOP, slow down, or change direction, any time I feel a little pull or a tug. Devil-May-Care Cumulus Young Version would not have done this. She would have pushed herself and waited for the pain to subside. But Devil-May-Care Young Cumulus did not have three children to look after, and a body that kept being injured by the normal routine of lifting and carrying small bodies, well, bodies that are needing to be carried and lifted slightly longer than the average child. The idea is health, not killing myself. The last thing I need is to wreck my knees or feet. Why, that would just give me more excuses to stop exercising.
Not Getting Angry With Myself For Being So Rubbish At Stuff
One of the great things, and frankly there weren't many, about the collection of diagnoses that my children have acquired over the last few years, was realising that actually I was almost certainly dyspraxic, rather than just mysteriously clumsy and rubbish at sport. This is helping me in the water, and in the gym, and also in the exercise classes I have very foolishly been taking. Instead of getting angry that I can't keep up with everyone else, that I can't follow simple steps and that when I try to turn my head to breathe in the pool I take in more water than a whale, I stop and think. I remind myself that I am not built like everyone else, that I need to break what I am learning into small steps, that I may take longer to learn the basics and never keep up with a dance routine, but that that is OK, because it is not a failure on my part, just the way God made me and I must accept that and work with the body I have, rather than the imaginary perfect one I would like. So I take a deep breath (OK, not in the water) and get on with what I can manage. I have, in short, learnt to have patience with myself, the same way I try to have patience with my kids.
Momentum? Not a problem. As long as I am rolling downhill...
You've got to do something you enjoy, said my fit friend. Oh YEAH, I thought, a dim light turning on in the dusty backwaters of that thing I used to call my mind, back in the day when I could think and everything. Yeah, that's right. Exercise needs to be FUN.
So I laughed hollowly for a bit, and wondered what on earth I could do that wouldn't be like pulling my own toenails out with my teeth. It took a while. Then a slow, snake-like memory uncoiled itself in the back of my mind. I quite enjoy swimming, I thought.
Immediately, the Anti-Exercise Brigade of Doubts that lives inside my head and has been successfully stopping me exercising for years leapt into action. "You can't SWIM OFTEN!" it hissed to me. "You won't enjoy it as much. It won't be a treat. And it'll ruin your hair." It took me days, days I tell you, before I realised that a) I could use a swimming cap, and that b) since I haven't visited a hairdresser for four years I clearly don't care about my hair very much anyway.
So I devised a plan. A plan that said "I will swim in one of those long race things that they have here in Auckland. Sometime in the next few years." Then, like all good plans, it got left on the shelf. But I'm writing it down here, to make it real. I am going to try to swim 1 km in ocean water, in less than 40 minutes (the official cut-off time for the Open Swim I am entering) in April. However in order to do this I am going to have to learn to do proper freestyle, you know, not just gasping for breath and giving up after a length or so. Oh, and I am going to TRY to run 6 km on Rangitoto in March, when they have this big running day. You have four hours to finish, so I am in with some chance there.
I'm setting these goals because, you see, I have realised that the Anti-Exercise Brigade of Doubts (AEBD) is an immensely powerful force. I can get to the gym, drop off my son to the creche where he will be welcomed and well-treated, walk into the gym or swimming area, and decide that actually I don't want to exercise at all today, yesterday when I really enjoyed it was actually a bit of a fluke, I'm no good at this physical malarky, I'd be better off going and drinking a nice cappucino, or maybe sit in the sauna instead. If I actually start exercising and persevere for more than a couple of minutes, the AEBD goes into retreat for a bit, but then it does come back for a second round just when I realise that I am slightly out of breath. It suggests that I don't want to overdo it and that today is a really bad day to exercise properly because after all it's Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday, and soon it will be the weekend, or rather it's Monday or Tuesday, and I should leave serious exercise until later in the week.
So I have drawn up some goals, to try to put the AEBD back into its place.
So I laughed hollowly for a bit, and wondered what on earth I could do that wouldn't be like pulling my own toenails out with my teeth. It took a while. Then a slow, snake-like memory uncoiled itself in the back of my mind. I quite enjoy swimming, I thought.
Immediately, the Anti-Exercise Brigade of Doubts that lives inside my head and has been successfully stopping me exercising for years leapt into action. "You can't SWIM OFTEN!" it hissed to me. "You won't enjoy it as much. It won't be a treat. And it'll ruin your hair." It took me days, days I tell you, before I realised that a) I could use a swimming cap, and that b) since I haven't visited a hairdresser for four years I clearly don't care about my hair very much anyway.
So I devised a plan. A plan that said "I will swim in one of those long race things that they have here in Auckland. Sometime in the next few years." Then, like all good plans, it got left on the shelf. But I'm writing it down here, to make it real. I am going to try to swim 1 km in ocean water, in less than 40 minutes (the official cut-off time for the Open Swim I am entering) in April. However in order to do this I am going to have to learn to do proper freestyle, you know, not just gasping for breath and giving up after a length or so. Oh, and I am going to TRY to run 6 km on Rangitoto in March, when they have this big running day. You have four hours to finish, so I am in with some chance there.
I'm setting these goals because, you see, I have realised that the Anti-Exercise Brigade of Doubts (AEBD) is an immensely powerful force. I can get to the gym, drop off my son to the creche where he will be welcomed and well-treated, walk into the gym or swimming area, and decide that actually I don't want to exercise at all today, yesterday when I really enjoyed it was actually a bit of a fluke, I'm no good at this physical malarky, I'd be better off going and drinking a nice cappucino, or maybe sit in the sauna instead. If I actually start exercising and persevere for more than a couple of minutes, the AEBD goes into retreat for a bit, but then it does come back for a second round just when I realise that I am slightly out of breath. It suggests that I don't want to overdo it and that today is a really bad day to exercise properly because after all it's Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday, and soon it will be the weekend, or rather it's Monday or Tuesday, and I should leave serious exercise until later in the week.
So I have drawn up some goals, to try to put the AEBD back into its place.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Taking the plunge
Hi, my name is Cumulus and I am a podgy exercise avoider.
My excuses are numerous, and very uninteresting. You know the kind of stuff. I was rubbish at sports at school, I have no time to myself, I have little spare cash to waste on gym fees, I don't enjoy it, I am bored quickly, I lack the motivation, I have such terrible body-image issues that I tend to avoid anything that makes me think about my physical wellbeing, I find exercising lonely and am too unco-ordinated for team games, I am getting a bit older and find it all more exhausting than I used to, I injure more easily, I am carting around far too many kilos which makes it all more tiring and dispiriting...and exercise is boring. Incredibly, incredibly, boring. If it isn't boring it's unpleasant, it makes your arms and legs hurt and it leaves you tired. Also, whilst you are exercising you are constantly fighting the urge to stop and go and find a nice cappucino or something, because your mind is telling you you've done quite enough for today. Even though you've been there for five minutes. Then there are the depressingly beautiful bodies you encounter, at a gym or swimming pool or even on the road, as you pant up the hill and are overtaken by Mr Dedicated Sixpack. Oh, and you haven't any gym clothes and your trousers keep falling down, not because you have lost weight but because they have lost their elastic stretchiness. And then you kill yourself on the equipment for forever and at the end a cheery little note pops up saying you have just used up seven calories. Which is odd, because you are going to need a bottle of wine and a three-course-meal to restore your joie-de-vivre.
Good heavens just writing this list makes me want to ditch the treadmill and go and find some wine.
Oh, OK, there is another reason. I have had a tough few years and all my energies have gone into managing the additional needs of my children (if you want to read that story, look up my blog Green Pastures New). This has just left me wrung out like a teatowel. Frankly, if someone had suggested that I use the few remaining minutes of the day that are not occupied by worrying and caring for my boys to get fit I would probably have whopped them over the head, if I had had the upper body strength to do so of course.
But then I met two lovely women who both had children with SN, and who were both fit, I mean seriously fit, one is running a marathon in a couple of weeks. I kind of looked at them with my jaw dropping, and a little voice at the back of my mind said "Well if THEY can do it..." So I investigated. I discovered that our local gym had a subsidised creche, woohoo, and that the prices, whilst painful, were not so exorbitant that we would need to sell the house. (At least not unless my husband gets the fitness bug too).
And so I started. About two weeks ago. And it's great, I'm going regularly and feeling loads better. That means I should probably expect to give up again in about another fortnight, once the novelty wears off. Unless I find a way of keeping my momentum.
That's my next post.
My excuses are numerous, and very uninteresting. You know the kind of stuff. I was rubbish at sports at school, I have no time to myself, I have little spare cash to waste on gym fees, I don't enjoy it, I am bored quickly, I lack the motivation, I have such terrible body-image issues that I tend to avoid anything that makes me think about my physical wellbeing, I find exercising lonely and am too unco-ordinated for team games, I am getting a bit older and find it all more exhausting than I used to, I injure more easily, I am carting around far too many kilos which makes it all more tiring and dispiriting...and exercise is boring. Incredibly, incredibly, boring. If it isn't boring it's unpleasant, it makes your arms and legs hurt and it leaves you tired. Also, whilst you are exercising you are constantly fighting the urge to stop and go and find a nice cappucino or something, because your mind is telling you you've done quite enough for today. Even though you've been there for five minutes. Then there are the depressingly beautiful bodies you encounter, at a gym or swimming pool or even on the road, as you pant up the hill and are overtaken by Mr Dedicated Sixpack. Oh, and you haven't any gym clothes and your trousers keep falling down, not because you have lost weight but because they have lost their elastic stretchiness. And then you kill yourself on the equipment for forever and at the end a cheery little note pops up saying you have just used up seven calories. Which is odd, because you are going to need a bottle of wine and a three-course-meal to restore your joie-de-vivre.
Good heavens just writing this list makes me want to ditch the treadmill and go and find some wine.
Oh, OK, there is another reason. I have had a tough few years and all my energies have gone into managing the additional needs of my children (if you want to read that story, look up my blog Green Pastures New). This has just left me wrung out like a teatowel. Frankly, if someone had suggested that I use the few remaining minutes of the day that are not occupied by worrying and caring for my boys to get fit I would probably have whopped them over the head, if I had had the upper body strength to do so of course.
But then I met two lovely women who both had children with SN, and who were both fit, I mean seriously fit, one is running a marathon in a couple of weeks. I kind of looked at them with my jaw dropping, and a little voice at the back of my mind said "Well if THEY can do it..." So I investigated. I discovered that our local gym had a subsidised creche, woohoo, and that the prices, whilst painful, were not so exorbitant that we would need to sell the house. (At least not unless my husband gets the fitness bug too).
And so I started. About two weeks ago. And it's great, I'm going regularly and feeling loads better. That means I should probably expect to give up again in about another fortnight, once the novelty wears off. Unless I find a way of keeping my momentum.
That's my next post.
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