In August my bezzy mate got engaged to her fella (who I set her up with 4 years ago - you can thank me later luv). I was made up for them and even had a little whinge at my desk in work when she rang to tell me. Tellin' ya, motherhood turns you into an emotional wreck, whinge at the drop of a hat these days.
I knew for a fact I was gonna get asked to be bridesmaid (chief bridesmaid if you please) and proceeded to absolutely crap myself for a couple of weeks. I am officially in fat bastard territory. I estimated that I needed to get back to at least the weight I was for my own wedding (5 years and 5 stone ago). Then they booked their wedding for next July. Are ya messin'?! 5 stone in less than a year. 'Kin hell.
Anyway, it was clear that just arsing about on Slimming World (and let's face it, that's what we all end up doing most of the time isn't it? Starting off with great intentions on a Thursday night after group. Come Saturday night, you're scranning on a big fat pizza and then devvo'd when you stay the same on Thursday and have to part with another fiver to listen to some auld bird chatting on about being constipated!) was NOT gonna cut the mustard here. I was gonna have to get my fat arse moving...and pronto.
Aaaages ago, I downloaded the Couch to 5k app. Kept saying I was gonna head out that door for a run, never happened. So when I rejoined the dreaded gym (£47 a month and you know 3 weeks down the line you're gonna be swerving it again) I decided to give it a whirl on the treadmill.
In the 1st week, you don't run more than a minute without having a little break to catch your breath and, you know, not die. 2nd week it steps up to a maximum of 90 seconds at a time. Both of these weeks (you do each workout 3 times in a week then step it up the next week) left me sweating profusely.
From the start of the 2nd week, I was already working myself up into a right flap about the 3rd week. They wanted me to run for 3 minutes. 3 frigging minutes. That's double what I was running in week 2 and that gave me a stitch. A stitch, haven't had one of them since school cross-country. I was clearly going to die.
So yesterday off I went to the dreaded gym. Picked a strategically placed treadmill so as to minimise the number of people who could see me making a sheeeow of myself. And off I went.
Yeah, I was beetroot red and sweating profusely. Yeah, I was gasping for breath and my legs turned to jelly. But I DID IT! I didn't die, not even close and when I got to the end of the last section of running, I was that pleased with myself, I could have cried (see earlier comment about motherhood turning me into an emotional wreck).
The only thing that pulled me down was the other women in the gym. Hair and makeup perfect, dressed in fashionable workout gear and running along without breaking a sweat. If you're not a sweaty mess, go home luv cos you're not doing it right!
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