Posts Tagged ‘losing weight’
So, despite knowing better and despite trying my best not to let it happen, I managed – somehow – to put on 3kgs during the summer holidays. To be fair, the holidays were 10 weeks long and I spent four of those weeks in England eating pies, plus two weeks in the States. Yes, two weeks in the States – come to think of it, it’s actually a wonder that I only put on 3kgs.
So this September, as I do every September, I weighed myself, tried on my benchmark white skinny jeans and cried silently into my skinny black coffee, then drew up a plan to shed the extra kgs.
I never do classes. If there’s one thing I hate more than the gym, it’s classes. I drew up a schedule. Four classes a week.
So today was the first class. Bounce Fit. Says the website: ‘The opposite of a gruelling ordeal, our classes are all about high spirits and awesome soundtracks. Most of all, it makes you smile, laugh and is great FUN!’
Sounds okay, no? Especially the bit where it says you can burn up to 1,000 calories a class!
There were five of us there today. That threw me. Having looked at the pix on the website, I’d imagined there might be 30 people and I could hide at the back, panting quietly into my baggy T-shirt and maybe even sneaking out for a doughnut half way through, but today there was no place to hide.
So we started. We bounced, we jumped, we leapt about till my heart was pounding out of my chest and my sweat was decorating the trampoline beneath my feet. I stopped for a breather.
‘Ahem,’ said the instructor, a guy who looked like he’d competed in the last Olympics. ‘We haven’t started yet. This is just the warm-up.’ I laughed. ‘We’ve been here eight minutes,’ he said. ‘The class is 60 minutes.’
Had I have been on a trampoline nearest the exit, I would have left. Really, I would.
The class then started in earnest. Bouncing boot camp is all I can say. I’ve never worked so hard in my life and the instructor took no prisoners. If someone faltered, we started the set again. There’s a fine line between feeling motivated and vowing never to go back, and I bounced that line for the whole hour (usually on the side of ‘never again’).
‘Remember! We’re aiming to burn 800 to 1,000 calories!’ shouted the instructor.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I whispered to my squats partner 40 minutes in. Having bounced on our knees, our tummies and our arms, done sit-ups, press-ups, mountain runs and all sort of other nasties, we were holding hands facing each other and doing bouncing squats for 20 before dropping down to plank for 10. Three sets of each. Plus some more because someone dropped their knees in plank. My partner didn’t answer but I didn’t blame her: she looked like she was about to pass out herself.
But I did it. It was close, but I got to the end without dropping dead. The instructor high-fived me.
‘How was it?’ he asked, bouncing about on his endorphin high.
‘Great,’ I wheezed. Then I went home and had a lie-down.
This is not a sponsored post.
I’m ashamed to admit that, two weeks after arriving back in the UAE full of good intentions to shed my summer weight-gain, the scales are yet to budge a grammito (that’s even smaller than a gramme). And this despite my best intentions: summer’s beer o’clock has been replaced with healthy breakfasts, low-calorie lunches, celery for snacks and small portions of healthy suppers.
I’ve even resorted to gin with low-cal tonic (just 20cals per 200ml!) instead of that great fattener-upperer, vino (every mother of small children will understand that swapping a little early-evening tipple for a Perrier is simply not feasible in the school holidays).
But nothing’s happening.
For two weeks I’ve lived in the only two pairs of jeans that currently fit me: blue, cropped jeans and red not-that-skinny jeans, both styled with long tops to disguise any muffin overspill and, frankly, I’m getting quite sick of them. I look longingly at my white skinny jeans (size 10, what was I thinking?); at my slinky dresses; and, especially, at my gorgeous Seven For All Mankind jeans that no longer do up (“buy them tight,” said the assistant. Umm, maybe not that tight, dear, I am 42!).
So, tomorrow, when the children go back to school, I’ll be back on my bike, no matter that it’s still over 40C. I’ll be in the garden with my skipping rope and, if you see a woman with gritted teeth running desperately around the compound like a Duracell bunny on acid, give me a wave.
I’ll do anything to make sure these extra kgs don’t take up permanent residence on my hips. Leopard-print skinnies, I’m telling you now: you’re on a sabbatical; no way are you retired.