Fit Busting

Every so often I get the urge to start taking better care of myself, get fit and shift those stubborn extra kilos. This urge usually coincides with some forthcoming social event, significant birthday (usually one with an ‘0’ attached) or some nasty little health issue. Any of these can force my biological alarm clock to start pealing furiously.

“Wake up! Wake up!” it cries desperately. “You’re running out of time to get the body of Jennifer Hawkins, the skin of Halle Berry and the liver of Mother Theresa.”

Of course I scoff at the silly little clock’s pathetic dream of me ever being able to sculpt my five foot nothing, rather well-covered frame into supermodel (or supernun!) status, but you’ve gotta give it credit for trying.

And so, in an effort to appease the little chap and to give myself an outside chance of being Fab, Fit and Fifty (yes, that was the ‘0’ I was referring to!) I have made a few lifestyle changes and even joined a gym. This is only the second time ever in my life that I have had an association with a gym. The first time was recorded in this column some time ago, a portion of which I will quote here as a reminder:

“If I sound surprised … it’s because it has taken me the better part of half a century to ever step inside a gymnasium and, frankly, I am shocked. Not only by the sight of my body (in all its alarming rotundity) being reflected ninety-fold around the mirrored walls, but also by the myriad of people who willingly offer up their time and their bodies to the Gruelling Gym Gods.”

This second visit has me reeling further. An assessment of my weight, height, body mass index, yada yada yada revealed that I am officially in the ‘obese’ category.

I was horrified! Thankfully (no doubt in a bid to ward off any membership-terminating tanties on my part) my instructor was quick to point that I had only just squeezed over the ‘obesity’ line and that it was probably due to that litre of damn water I had drunk on the day. That made me feel a bit better.

And so this past week I have been pumping iron, marching up hills on a walking machine, rowing my way across what feels like the Pacific, flaying about like some weird, unco moon-child on a machine called an ‘Elliptical’, contorting my reluctant ‘abs’ into crunches and cycling til my butt hurt.

But have the kilos started to shift? Not on your Nelly! Each day I jump eagerly on the scales expecting some miraculous diving of the numbers, but nah. To my annoyance, they just keep getting higher instead of lower.

“Muscle weighs more than fat,” offered one friend, trying to comfort me but I seriously doubt that five sessions at the gym would’ve made any muscle yet.

“It’s probably just fluid,” says someone else kindly.

I have my own theory. My fat cells are perfectly happy where they are. They like me. And it’s going to take more than a bit of heart thumping to bump them off. Well, I’ve got news for them. This time I’m serious!

And just to prove it, I’m going to go out there again today and huff and puff and sweat til my corpuscles hurt.

But not until I’ve had a nice cup of tea ….oh, and wasn’t there a bit of left over chocolate cake in the pantry?....mmmm