I’m going on holiday in November, and have about a stone to lose before then in order to be able to walk down the beach without feeling like I’ve got the remnants of a bowling ball rolling around my insides. I’m not actually overweight, at least not according to Wii Fit – my BMI is “ideal” – but despite that I’m feeling somewhat middle-heavy and don’t want to be self-conscious about it.
So I’m hitting the exercise. Jo and I have a cross trainer in our lounge, and watching crap TV is pretty awesome while using it, so I’m doing that two or three times a week for between twenty minutes and half an hour. The real horror, though, comes from an exercise DVD. Now, anyone who’s seen me dance knows that I’m not exactly the most coordinated person in the entire world when it comes to arms and legs, but the flail factor increases exponentially when having to match an exercise routine. As I copy the moves poorly, with the lag time of a particularly rubbish early LCD telly, I’m 100% aware that I look like a tit, but sadly it’s the only way I’m going to actually achieve results. The middle bit of the routine – fifteen minutes of absolute hell – leaves me sweating like nothing else.
I’m eating more healthily, too, but exercise is definitely the key, and since I only live five minutes from work there’s little possibility of massively long walks during the week (not that I think they’d do all that much, anyway), other than when I wander home from my client’s office in town on a Tuesday afternoon. So until I reach my target weight I’m going to continue to hammer it in my own home. Hopefully I’ll be able to largely avoid the usual distractions of chocolate and red wine and yummy food and red wine and sweets and red wine. Except on special occasions, obviously.
And, as it happens, it’s one of them tonight – a surprise birthday party for my Grandma at my aunt’s house. So that’s being good out of the window tonight, then. Never mind – I’ll just have to look even more of a tit in front of the telly tomorrow.