|Too many fecking mirrors|
Of course, if I had been expecting to see myself naked from a million different angles I would have sucked my tummy in and stuck my ass out ... or maybe just not showered for the entire weekend.
BUT, as it was, I suddenly encountered myself in my full Rubansesque nakedness. Which would be FINE if I was living in the 1600s (I would have been a BABE) but not so hot in 21st century Scotland.
It wasn't good.
I took in the whole landscape: Nothing was the right shape. Nothing was hanging the right way. Or at the right height. I make the Willendorf Venus look like Twiggy.
I stood marvelling at myself. After a caesarian, an appendectomy and gall bladder removal, my stomach resembled a particularly lumpy and dented map. Lots of cut muscles. But mostly evidence of too many kitkats and almond croissants.
You know that lovely little curve that sweeps down from your waist to the top of your bottom. I have none. Whatsoever. Flat back. Where did it go? It's not buried beneath a layer of wobble, but it's gone.
That's what comes of sitting on your arse for a lifetime.
And so, dear reader, I found myself signing up for a 6 week pass at the local sports centre.
The first class was KETTLEBELLS. What a cute name. Reminded me of the friendly and motherly singing kettle thing in Beauty and the Beast. It will be, I assured myself, a piece of piss.
Cut to later that same evening as I find myself lying on my back, unable to pull myself up into one more sit up. Cut to slightly later in the same evening - my buttocks absolutely refusing to play ball any more as I try to lower myself into one of the endless lunges. Squats? Fuck off.
Beryl, on my left, is in her 70s. June, on my right is just a little bit older than me, I think. They are both dipping and sit-upping with gusto. I feel so sore I can barely walk to the car. I get home and Sonshine has to help me from the car to the house. THAT'S how unfit I am. After FIVE days, I can walk up the stairs without clutching the bannister and moaning as though I'm in a particularly low-budget porno.
Aquafit class the following evening is, on the other hand, a laugh and achievable. Sure, I do struggle with the hand-weights behind my head and I'm not keen on my fanny acting like a suction pump on the cold pool water as I gaily swing my legs to the beat of Ed Sheeran .... but I get through it!
The induction session at the gym - an Instructor walks me through the equipment. I tell him not to bother explaining about the big heavy weights, I won't be going there.
And so it has come to pass that I am going to the sports centre every weekday - sometimes for the gym, sometimes for the aquafit.
And guess what, dear reader? I LOVE it.