Little sideways steps...

Husband is travelling again; expect more posts.

This afternoon, to fill the space he's left behind, I took the Boys to the sandpit in Holland Park. The weather was beautiful, and thankfully I didn't even have to race around like a madwoman chasing Boy #1, due to the fact it was so overcrowded I could with some justification claim that there wasn't the space for the type of thing, blast it. A happy coincidence then got me properly off the hook when some friends arrived with their children, and they and both Boys were able to spend the next hour or so delightedly roaring at each other around the playhouses.

This was good, because I was not really capable of the whole chasing thing today. I don't know if you ski. Or maybe you played hockey at school? But there's a certain set of muscles in your legs that I previously thought were only used in those two types of exercise which right now are screaming - SCREAMING - at me to Cut Out The Stupid Heroics In The Gym.

I've brought it on myself, of course. On Friday night I had a review session with one of the gym instructors and she gave me an updated programme that she promised would - coupled with healthy eating - help me shift 'the apple'. She then helped me to reinforce my resolve to lose weight by checking my BMI - alright-ish but not brilliant - and my body fat percentage.

Oh. My. God.

Now, I know what you're thinking.

If you don't have kids, you're thinking;

1. What on earth is 'the apple'? (See the link above)
2. What on earth were you doing using valuable drinking time on a Friday night in the gym? (Oh, you poor innocent fools. Wait until you have children, is my only answer)

And if you do have kids, you're thinking:

1. Give it up, sister. Live with the apple like the rest of us.
2. Give it up, sister - don't you know those gym instructors lie?
or
3. Give it up - and have some chocolate, and possibly a glass of red. And pour one for me, whilst you're at it.

However, despite knowing all of those things that you were thinking, the fat percentage thing made such an impression that I still went to the gym again on Saturday morning - less than 14 hours after my session on Friday night - to run through it all again on my own because, may I remind you, I have had children. And as a result, whilst I know what 'the apple' is, I can hardly remember my own name these days. So the chances of my remembering how to do all the exercises the instructor so kindly listed out for me if I left them until my next 'gym window' on Monday night are slim (if you'll pardon the pun), and none. And slim just left town.

I knew it was going to be hard on those hockey / skiing muscles even as I 'tube walked' shakily across the room, trying very hard to avoid glancing in the mirrors opposite. Not that I am phobic about my reflection, but I had just done half an hour of interval training and was 'glowing' more than a little. I mean, why would you look?

By the way, what psychopath invented interval training?

So, there I was on Saturday, with a giant elastic band around my calves, shuffling crabwise across a thankfully almost empty gym, glowing prettily, when the Zen Gang bounced out of their 8.30am yoga class. Or was it pilates? Who knows. In any case, I swear there was a collective horrified intake of breath as they noticed me and edged nervously around the edge of room towards their post workout wheat-grass pick-me-ups, not wanting to be contaminated by any part of my non-holistic approach to fitness.

But it would all have been OK, if only I had been able to stand up without wincing just a little (oh, all right, a lot), today.

Instead, I leant shakily against a wall in Holland Park sandpit and wondered if I would ever be able to walk up stairs again. Thank god we live in a flat.