Picture the scene. Its 6pm, you have just got from work, it is cold, you are tired, work was manic, the kids/ the boy are ‘starving!’ and all you want to eat is something fattening, creamy and served with a vat of wine! Reality snaps you back to the empty fridge, the goose pimples on your arms and the cellulite on (my) chubby short thighs. Taking a deep breath, swiftly chopping some vegetables and think skinny thoughts, you continue the battle of the bulge, determined to win! This time it’s the annual run up to Christmas battle of the bulge and operation little black dress. With Christmas party invites pouring in, food offerings over flowing and vino being served by the gallon (hope that’s not just in my house!) its more tempting to put on your comfies, wrap up in a snuggie and let the mince pie onslaught begin than to start fighting the flab. But fight we do and with what energy! A quick poll around my office of 18 beautiful, intelligent and successful women showed we were all following some kind of diet, albeit some following a little less rigidly than others but never the less still following. From the Dukan diet to Slimming World and from the Cuppa Soup diet to the Heart diet, between us we know every point, calorie and carb count like the back of our hands. The 5 men in the office clearly have little hope and sanity working with us mad lot! As I gazed into yet another homemade fat free soup, wishing desperately that it was a vat of fat free apple pie and custard I began to wonder if there wasn’t another way to do this. Operation banish the belly needed to start with more than just a diet, the cold trickle of realisation hit, the only way was exercise.....
Being the kinda gal who is allergic to exercise, refuses to wear a look that inspires the statement ‘sponsored by Adidas’ and has no desire to be running on the spot for hours at a time whilst ‘Gym Barbie’ work out next to me, I choose carefully which sports I commit to. Firstly I am not great at team sports, having dyspraxia makes my hand to ball coordination rather rubbish, I hate to wear a uniform (why is it always a colour that is most unflattering to my skin tone?!) and should the lure of my duvet win one wet and windy day, the guilt of letting people down haunts me. Secondly I am no gym bunny. Being trapped in a room, with walls covered in mirrors, which makes it virtually impossible to not observe every wobbly bit as it wobbles and breathing in air smattered with other peoples sweat, is not my idea of a good time. All whilst paying an extortionate fee for the pleasure of this as well as being perved on by some steroid infused lump of muscle and being made to feel incompetent because your ‘running’, with mascara streaking and sports bra slipping down your shoulder, whilst Gym Barbie sprints ahead, implants and eye liner firmly intact. As I gazed down at my podgy little belly I needed motivation, something drastic. To motivate me off my ever increasing back side and shock me into action. Yep, I did what we all avoid doing at any cost ladies, I braved the full length mirror!! Obliviously this was done in the safety of my own bathroom, with the heating blasting out and the door firmly locked. Taking a very deep breath and daring a peek through my fingers, I examined the damage all the vino, cake and general sitting around has done to my body. As I peered critically at the expanse of pale, blotchy skin in the mirror, it was clear the only way to get the party body I wanted was through some intense toning and a LOT of St Tropez finest. A quick shop on line ensured the magic in a bottle was hot footing its way too me, next stop toning. After down loading an App to my iphone, laying the yoga mat on the floor and putting MTV on (for thinspiration and music) I started with a basic sit up. As a ripping pain shot through my chest it was quite apparent this wasn’t supposed to happen. Barely able to breathe or stand up I was in worse shape than I thought or I had done some serious damage. A quick check in with the Doctor confirmed it was the latter, I was the owner of a torn inter costal muscle. Her advice – to rest it.
As I sat on the sofa latter that night, resting my torn muscle, snuggled with a hot water bottle, sipping hot chocolate, I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t a sign. Maybe I’m not designed to do such rigorous exercise, maybe a lesson could be learnt from this. Should we just be happy in our own bodies? Why are going to such lengths for perfection? For ourselves, for other people? When do we stop and just accept ourselves rolls of flab and all? As I carry on my journey of self acceptance I know I will be greatly helped along the way by some fake tan and very big knickers!!
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