Another Monday morning of rueful stomach roll contemplation. This is followed by an avowal to abstain from imbibing all forms of alcohol and a commitment to better dietary choices.
Let’s see how far into the week we get this time.
Nothing tastes as good as healthy feels, right?
I’m currently eating a fibre snacks bar that attempts to mimic a Snickers. Given the list of ingredients, I’d wager it’s efficacy in weight management has more to do with revulsion at consuming cabbage powder, partially defatted peanut flour…which, just quietly, is the perfect personal descriptor for me – Behold! I am partially defatted – and astragalus root powder.
For the super disciplined, all these protein shakes, supplements and cleansing powders work a treat. Truly and honestly, I shed 5-6 kilos in a
joyless, interminable month. I felt AH.MAY.ZING at the end of it and enjoyed being reunited with several pairs of jeans. I have all the tools to continue this journey of wellness (say, what?), and, poised permanently as I seem to be on the cusp of menopause, it makes sense to pursue the ideal health scenario before I turn into my mother.
Unfortunately, along with excellent skin tone and a self deprecating sense of humour, I appear to have inherited both my parents deep and abiding love of the fermented grape and equally abiding antipathy to exercise.
Bio-mum has never exercised. Actually I lie, she had a brief stint with a seniors movement class several years ago where she managed to dislocate a hip rolling off a fit ball. So let’s throw a serious lack of coordination into the mix as well.
My father used to go on manic, but mercifully brief, fitness kicks. He’d spend an hour peddling away on a stationery bike like a lunatic, sweat pouring off him and legs so shaky afterwards that he couldn’t stand. Then he’d whip out the Bullworker and spend another forty minutes or so trying to look like Charles Atlas. Nothing says ripped quite like a torn rotator cuff.
I’m insanely envious of people whose very existences are defined by their commitment to fitness and super healthy diets.
Don’t even talk to me before my 9km run and green smoothie.
I had three quinoa and goji berry cookies, looks like I’m hitting the Bikram studio as well as Pilates today!
You know the best cure for a hangover? A boxing class!
Shut up. It’s a can of coke and a burger. Everyone knows that.
Three quarters of the way through ‘Febfast’ I managed to fall off the wagon on four separate occasions. ‘Dry July ‘was merely a passing thought and ‘Sober October’ IS JUST NOT POSSIBLE.
I seem to be surrounded by a host of friends currently in training for some gruelling long form exercise event in the name of charity. Quite aside from highlighting my sloth-like tendencies, these Facebook, email and text message implorations to support the marathon bike ride, run, walk, swim, river dance etc…are costing me a bomb.
All right, all right, you’re all bloody legends. Now go carb load and pipe the hell down!
Spouse regularly works fifteen hour days AND manages to hit the gym. He also regularly face plants the computer keyboard afterwards but hey, he’s got abs of steel even if he is in a coma.
Aware my sybarite attitude to life was at odds with my beloved’s spartan sensibility and, more tellingly, that the inevitability of summer clothing loomed ahead, I have reconnected with my personal trainer.
Yay for me.
Given the choice I would not be up at dawns crack, dragging lycra over atrophied calf muscles and lumpy thighs. And without the smilingly sadistic ministrations of my perpetually upbeat trainer I would not be lifting, dragging, swinging off and pummelling a range of weighty, tubular, ropey, and padded objects.
No siree Bob, I’d be in bed researching me a range of summer kaftans.
But apparently, Hindu beliefs notwithstanding, we just get one shot at this, and even if I am reincarnated, it would inevitably be as a tortoise or a slater bug, so I may as well get my healthy on now before I need to work on my next life’s exoskeleton.
Pass the protein shake.