Hello lovely readers, Liz here once more!
I was incredibly proud of Marj’s resistance of the chocolate fondant. A weaker soul (such as myself) would have succumbed to the melted chocolatey goodness and dived headfirst into a week long moan as to why the weight loss voyage is taking so long. Despite my somewhat sporadic enthusiasm for diet and exercise, my rather considerable muffin-top is gradually shrinking, and I am considering shopping for actual jeans rather than comfy elasticated waist leggings. The idea of this fills me with trauma, so it may be a while yet..
In a fit of rare enthusiasm, I energetically responded to an emailed discount voucher, effectively promising me 12 sessions with an ex marine personal trainer over 6 weeks, for the bargain basement price of £12.00. That is £1.00 per session. Much cheaper than the gym or other expensive paid exercise. This was 3 months ago. The sessions had been looming with an increased sense of dread and doom, with GI Jane images of shaved heads and push ups in the mud, and being chased around a field until I collapsed. The truth, I am glad to say, is somewhat less harrowing. We turn up the required 15 minutes early, and a non threatening smiley man tells us what is in store. In all, it doesn’t sound bad; after all, I am not THAT unfit.
However, within 2 minutes of light jogging around some cones, sinking realisation that a brisk stroll a couple of times a week does not equate to fitness hits home. It has been 5 minutes and I am out of breath. This is the warm up. To make matters worse, rather than the expected ‘biggest loser’-esque ladies, there are people who have run actual marathons in attendance. People who co-ordinate their sports bra to their natty sports top. (Pretty sure my trackies are actually pyjama bottoms, not exactly a vision of fitness.) Then the worst bit. He wants us to do press ups. I have zero upper body strength. I manage a feeble ½ press up before putting my knees on the floor and flobbering around like a recently netted fish. There are several other unspeakable horrors in the first session, including planking and burpies. (Awful, hateful things.) I start aching on the way home. Muscles I didn’t know I have are hurting. Oddly though, my bottom muscles are fine. I would conclude that they do not exist.
Session number 2 is even worse. The beep test. I still hurt from the previous session, and I am a rather pathetic way through when I feel like a hernia has burst forth from my lung. I stop, get water, and try not to be sick. Entry level for the Army is level 10. I got to level 2.5. But, on the bright side, I got to walk around chatting while the rest finished their man-break tests. So as a result I ache less. Session 3 is unspeakable, purely because I forgot to take my sports bra. Obviously this was the day that star jumps were introduced to the work out. Ladies (or corpulent gentlemen) you know how awful this is. Also, I pulled one on my bottom muscles in the first few minutes resulting in 55 minutes of chest and rear end discomfort. Nice. Today however, I am not aching at all, so I figure that I am making progress. Slow, embarrassing, progress.
I discovered a very different and much more fun type of voucher recently. The ‘two for one’ at various Italian restaurants is lovely, and from a slimming perspective it is possible to be sensible with dressing-less salads and healthy olives. My advice on this though, rather than attempting to calculate calories and fat content would be to merely enjoy (in moderation obviously) yourself. After all, life is for living, and food is for eating! (Bottle of wine optional.) Combine with exercise, and the results will speak for themselves.
Goodbye for now!
