Weight and watch

For some time now I have been considering various forms of exercise. Since I was working full time and there-for (that is deliberate) not able or inclined to do any more than my full day already entailed, it remained a thought, occasionally brought out of its little box at the back of my head and examined for feasibility and involvement and then tucked neatly back to hibernate or moulder, rather like a well-ripened cheese. In between, when the thought clamoured for a touch of reality, it would be quelled by my falling up the stairs and damaging various appendages or by deadlines at work getting extended beyond tolerance or even blood sugar levels fluctuating more than it was normal for them to do.

And then, I took the step that everyone wondered about, but most envied: I quit my job. Which gave me plenty of time to get some kind of exercise routine in gear, get myself back into shape and give my psyche and self-image a rather belated but appreciated overhaul. But like everything else that comes to me, the revelation took time, it had to be carefully examined and analysed, the finances and the timings paid great attention to and then, one day, when my favourite floppy cotton trousers bust a zip (it was a long-suffering plastic zipper that had inherent malfunctions) when I was tugging them on, I made up my mind. The next time I broke a fastening it could be because of my horizons being too much wider than I would be comfortable with, rather than structural faults. It was time to find a gym.

The research had already been done a couple of years ago. Any of the salon services that promised healthy and happy weight loss and general toning up were of no use to me. Experience had proved in years gone by that bootcamp was the only way to travel for this babe and I would choose that route. Not to be mean and nasty to myself, but to make sure that the end that I had in mind would be achieved, I would get back into a regimen that was good for me in the long term and I could not possibly be distracted by invitations of a beauty care system or counselling to change my life and its style of being lived. What I needed was exercise – to tone up those flabby bits that seemed more proliferated than I remembered, to improve my woefully sagging stamina and to fit back into the jeans I got a few years ago and were the only ones that fit that well. So I headed for the gym with the brand name and reputation and even as I hesitated about going in, saw enough large people there for me to feel brave enough to expose my own adipose.

In I went, up I signed and on I laboured. After a brief trial session yesterday, I started in earnest this morning. A ten minute walk and I was there, on time, ready to be put through the wringer. The trainer beamed happily at me, more so after he found that I was willing and able to follow instructions. I even agreed, albeit with a small grumble, to be made to do crunches, the only form of exercise I actively hate. I felt really proud of myself as I hefted weights that seemed almost as heavy though not as furry or wiggly as Small Cat, one in each hand, until I saw a very large gentleman picking up rings of weights that looked almost as big as I am – one in each hand! If anything could cut me down to size, it was that, but I smiled, promised myself that I would foray upwards and onwards and continued, never mind that my trainer seemed to be determined to yank my shoulders out of their sockets and my boredom threshold off the count. In the routines I rediscovered why I never persevered with gym schedules: they entailed repetitions that could put anyone’s mind to sleep and the motivation to repeat into the realm of sheer dullness.

Any which way, I will go on with it, for my reasons and more. I have the time, I am assured I have the money and I know I have the will. If it makes me healthier and, in the long term, happier, why not!