Before I had children I was a serious gym bunny.
I owned Lycra. I actually looked kinda good in Lycra even if I do say so myself.
I didn’t need the comfort of a huge baggy T-shirt over the top of everything to find the courage to enter a gym where heavily made up women and shiny, muscle-bound men pretended to get fit.
I had the sort of confidence you could bottle and make your fortune from.
I would skip into classes with names like Boxercise, Triple Challenge and Super Step. I sometimes did two in one morning.
I was that hugely annoying girl at the front of the class kicking her legs so high you thought I was deranged.
Then I had children.
Lycra and I fell out big time.
I haven’t allowed it anywhere near my house since 2002 when Daniel was born.
I mean I LOVED being pregnant. I blossomed. I didn’t want to stop. But after having two children later in life (I was 34 when I had my first) the weight gain didn’t seem to want to stop either.
I lost the confidence too.
Yes, yes I have a myriad of excused for why I’m still carrying around my ‘baby weight’. Despite the fact that my ‘baby’ is now five. FIVE! I ask you!
I have blamed my mum for giving me defective genes (why didn’t I get the ones which mean you snap back into shape?), my husband (he’s killing me with kindness when he nags me to have a chocolate HobNob with my cup of tea); even my children have been held responsible for making me love them more than going to the gym.
I mean who wants to go and sweat next to 16 other women when you could be playing tig or making dens on the bed with two kids? No contest.
These days it feels like I now have the ability to gain weight by osmosis. I have to run down the cake aisle in the supermarket for fear of having my cells expand just by breathing in too deeply near the chocolate muffins.
Somewhere between the pelvic tilts and the breastfeeding I developed a fatal attraction to sugar.
Of course I ate plenty of sugar before, but I never (whisper it) had my own secret stash around the house.
And let’s face it, when you’ve spent ages slaving over a roast dinner/plate of sandwiches/slice of toast you become some kind of food hoover because you can’t bear to see it go to waste.
This has to stop. For my health, for my sanity, for my bloody wardrobe; just for me.
I don’t want to give up the good stuff and make life dullsville by denying myself everything.
But I don’t want to be strolling through my 40s with a serious hang up about my weight and my health.
And working from home just makes the problem even worse: The biscuits/toast/bagels are just 12 footsteps away (yes, I’ve counted).
So I am going to shape up.
I will start with baby steps. I’m not telling anyone things are changing. I won’t make any grand announcements or declare that the fridge is out of bounds. Or make the family eat a pound of lettuce and a single raisin.
But I am writing it own on here to make me accountable. To make it ‘real’.
I am starting my own Fit Club (that’s it, over there in the sidebar on the right) to knock myself into shape.
I will make small changes.
And next week I will reveal exactly what they are.