Before I had my first child back in September 2009 I was a member of a gym. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of fitness fanatic, but I was aware that exercise was unavoidable if you wish to have any semblance of a figure post-30. I would run on the treadmill, spend some time on the cross trainer, the rowing machine and do a few of the weight machines for core strengh. I also combined that with going for a run, particularly in the summer months.
The hubster was, and still is, a bit of a fitness fanatic. He religiously runs and goes to the gym, does weights, enters competitive runs and takes part in our local Park Run every Saturday morning, even if he was working late the night before. (His dad reckons it’ll be the death of him 🙂 ).
Since having my first child, the hubster’s fitness regime has
changed to not changed at all. My fitness regime has involved me cancelling my gym membership, losing my fitness gear under a mountain of nursing bras and stretchy material more akin to elastic than lycra, walking up five flights of stairs three times a week at work and plenty of arm action tipping a Costa coffee cup towards my grateful mouth.
Which is not to say that I didn’t attempt the odd ‘Buggy Bootcamp’ in the early days. I gave it a go (running up a hill pushing a baby in a travel system is harder than it might sound). Then, after he turned two and the hubster relaxed a bit about being left alone with a sleeping child I got to attend zumba sessions once a week with a friend (which was great fun and I loved it), before, three months in, discovering that I was pregnant with No.2, at which point jumping in a box shape (?) lost it’s appeal.
I had a half hearted attempt at following Davina’s DVD workouts and once that became impossible, even, in desperation, rashly purchased a ’10 minute’ dance workout offering (which I’ve never to this day attempted!). I talked the hubster into buying a Kinect for the X-box thinking I’d have a Wii-style fitness regime set up in the living room (which, it transpires, is about half a metre too small for all your movements to be detected, and besides, who wants the TV dissing their ongoing attempts at a straight arm – if I want that kind of abuse I’ll join up for Military Fitness…).
Sooo, what is the upshot of all this abject fitness failure? Well, I’ve discovered Spanx*++! And frankly, if you own a garment that appears to be crafted from some kind of experimental armour from a secret military facility, who needs an exercise regime? …
Seriously though, I would actually quite enjoy the opportunity to don some lycra and escape into the world of the fit and active (if only for the feelgood endorphins – legal highs, people, legal highs). However this is, unfortunately, not an option for me as the hubster is a shift worker. Maybe when the children hit the minimum requirements to slip under the guidelines for legal abandonment I’ll actually get myself back into a fitness routine. In the meantime I’ll just keep polishing my halo for running up those five flights of stairs to the office (and hope my colleagues never have to dial 999)…
*In the interests of absolute honesty I’ll admit Spanx is not the brand I picked (I’m not made of money, just wobbly bits), so if you notice a sneaky bulge popping out when you see me at BlogFest, that could be the reason. Having said that, I’ve decided that Spanx, as a word, fits the ‘Hoover’ criteria – i.e. it lends itself to describe any garment that sucks away the bits you’d rather not have on display for the world to see 😉
++Disclaimer: it is not advisable to shun exercise in favour of miracle undergarments – they will not prevent a heart attack, and are quite likely to contribute to a severe case of heartburn if nothing else. Sob.