Mon, 09 Nov 2009 11:14a.m.
On Saturday night I slept for 10-and-a-half hours straight. Slept straight through my alarm and everything. Pure exhaustion. On Sunday morning I woke up with aching ankles. I didn’t even realise I had muscles around my ankles. Then it dawned on me. I don’t. That’s why they’re so bleeding sore.
It all started on Saturday morning. Gym Buddy and I went to a group fitness class. BodyAttack, they call it. I think the name is meant to imply that the eager participants are attacking their bodies, getting them back into shape and all that. Well, my body attacked me instead. From the get-go I felt intimidated and wary.
The instructor was obviously a Terminator-like machine, or at the very least superhuman. I have never seen a woman that toned and strong in my entire life.
She happened to mention that she’d run the Auckland Marathon the weekend before. Good for her. It was just after ten in the morning and she jumped around like she’d already been up for hours. Unlike myself who’d only been out of bed for 20 minutes and barely had time to chuck down a protein shake before the class. She was all just a little too chirpy to be true.
Equally intimidating were the old people. Old people who were obviously permanently enrolled in this class every Saturday. They talked about the instructors like they were old friends: “Who’s the instructor today, Frank” – “I think it’s Frieda, Paddy” – “No, it was Frieda last week – I think it’s Sarita this week.” Gym Buddy and I looked at each other. We didn’t have to speak. Our eyes said it all. Oh dear God. Everyone else is going to know what to do and we know zilch. What were we thinking?
I’ve always thought I had reasonable hand-eye coordination. I play netball quite well (although maybe that’s because I constantly push the poor opposition around when the ref isn’t looking) and have a fairly good eye for shooting hoops. But when it comes to doing simple high kicks, faux karate chops, side-to-side shuttles – in fact, anything vaguely aerobicy – I am truly hopeless. Even my faithful gym buddy who has a reputation of being quite gumby sometimes (ask him yourself – he’ll totally agree) was a million times better than me. My calves and feet screamed. My arms ached. My everything everythinged. However, the manager of the gym was also in the class and he wasn’t that great either so that made me feel slightly better. He kept stopping halfway through sets of sheer hell and stretching out his calf muscles. I took his cue and did the same. If the gym manager can slack off, so can I.
I think the main problem is that I just have too many limbs. I’m sure you don’t really need all four. Or maybe I just suck at left- and right-brain coordination. You know the whole pat-your-head-while-rubbing-your-tummy thing? I’ve never really grasped that properly. During the class my mind just couldn’t get around moving two legs and two arms at the same time. When you do something with your leg, you’re supposed to do something with your opposite arm. And so on.
EVERYSINGLETIME I realised I was using my left arm with my left knee, right arm with my right knee. Dangnabbit! No matter how hard I concentrated, I either used the arm and knee on the same side or moved in the wrong direction and knocked some poor old person over. Running forwards, jumping and clapping; knees high, opposite arms doing, well, stuff – I’m not too sure actually, I never really got past the running forwards .. And what’s with the hopping and jumping between virtually every single move? I was the definition of gumby.
The best part of the class was running around the room multiple times. I don’t think there are enough adjectives in the entire English dictionary that could properly describe my hatred of running, but on this occasion running was the oasis in the desert. What a relief it was to stop thinking about which arm to reach to the stars when whichever knee was hugged up to my chest.
I don’t think I have ever secreted that much sweat before. After an indoor netball game I am generally quite damp, but this was a whole new level of wetness. My hair was dripping, my shirt was wet through, my socks were wet, even my undies where my legs meet my, well, you get the picture, were wet. (Obviously sweat, people, not weewee.)
As Gym Buddy and I stumbled out of the class afterwards, leaning on each other for support, I imagined what it would be like to drink a nice cold beer with inch-thick froth and the occasional bubble floating to the top. I am not what you’d call a drinker – in fact, I think the last time I drank beer was when I was 12 and secretly tasted Dad’s Double Brown – but if I was a drinker that definitely would’ve been a good time to have a beer.
Last week I tried to reinvent myself as a gym bunny. I went to the gym or did some seriously intense physical activity on six out of seven days. The only day I missed was Sunday because my ankles were half paralysed from Saturday’s exercise.
Monday: an hour at the gym.
Tuesday: an hour walk, half an hour swim, and half an hour of intense hot and sweaty indoor netball. (For the record, we lost by five points. Gutted.)
Wednesday: an hour at the gym and half an hour in the pool.
Thursday: an hour at the gym.
Friday: just for a change, an hour at the gym.
Saturday: a truly awful hour-long class of BodyAttack, followed by a mere 15 minutes in the pool because that’s all it took before my legs actually fell off from sheer exhaustion. Quite a good feat, I think, for someone just starting out on their quest for hotness.
Unfortunately, my diet has been pretty crap this week, so I think all that sweat and body odour was probably a total waste of time. I was doing OK until the weekend. I went out on Friday night and got a Big Mac combo with Fanta and a six-pack of chicken nuggets on the way home, then went to bed pretty much as soon as I’d finished eating. I think those calories stuck to me like glue overnight, I’m afraid. On Saturday night I got Noodle Canteen for dinner (leftovers for lunch the next day) and I pretty much demolished an entire 250g bag of Skittles at the movies all by myself.
The ironic thing is that I actually love healthy eating, it’s just that sometimes I just can’t be bothered cooking it. Unfortunately my laziness plus speedy drive-thru equals general flabbiness. Something I shall endeavour to work on this week.
What I’m reading: This Charming Man by Marian Keyes.
What I’m watching: “My Sister’s Keeper.” Tear. Still haven’t made it to “This Is It” yet. The clock is ticking. Closing night perhaps?
What I’m looking forward to: starting my Christmas shopping this month – in the name of Girl Guides everywhere, “Be Prepared.”
What I’m dreading: how much money I’m going to need to get through the Christmas and New Year period .. Odd jobs anyone?
What’s made me happy this week: the smell of sun-dried clothes. Summer is nigh.
What’s really annoyed me this week: reversing my car into a fence and getting a massive dent in the bumper.