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.
No comments:
Post a Comment