Despite the fact that she has no arms, a time-worn nose and various contusions, including what seem to be simultaneous attempts at garrotting and decapitation, I yearn to look like this woman.
Since my return to Scotland I have begun a journey to getting fit. This was triggered by being back in my parents’ house and my reaction to the overwhelming presence of food. It suddenly all became very clear to me just how my personal eating habits came to be formed.
Treating this realization as the exposed root of a life-long neuroses, and combining this with another family trait of supplying a good idea with as much enthusiasm as possible, I subsequently hurled myself into an intense fitness regime almost as soon as I landed.
I bought new shoes, a heart monitor, and the sports bra of all sports bras. It is red and is marked for “very high intensity.” This bra is so intimidating that I nearly dislocated my shoulder trying it on in the changing room at Marks and Spencer. In this bra my breasts look like huge alien sausages. I showed it to John at the first opportunity.
I wanted to sweat. I wanted to get strong. I wanted to shed all the fear I wear in layers over my skeleton. I wanted results. But Of course, I have hurt myself.
Within a week of jumping, squatting, lunging (**side note. In the editing of this post I realized that I had written “lunching” instead of lunging. Freud, is that you?) and heaving my way through the various motions of a home DVD nightmare called Insanity, the pain in my right hip, which is connected to a half-moon of tension that cups around my tailbone, became unbearable. I ended up at an Osteopath having my back snapped back into place and the knots massaged out of my muscles.
It has been a week off and I’m still in pain and am feeling deeply frustrated. My attempts to massage myself last night (I can’t afford to keep going to the Osteopath) has left me with a lovely low-slung belt of bruises around my tail bone and hips. I should also mention that in the week that I was walking to and from work (40 minutes each way) and working out for an hour in the evenings, I managed to gain a pound and lose not one inch.
So instead of feeling like the graceful (albeit in a crumbly sort of way) creature above, I feel rather like this:
FOD. How I wear this sentiment like a cloak made of meat.
Still, I am attempting to regroup. I am abandoning any hope of continuing with Insanity (really, the hint is in the name, woman!) and will shortly be starting another, more reserved 90-day programme.
I am trying. But it is hard and I feel a bit stupid.