Today I got on the scales. Things didn’t go well.
Take a seat. I’m about to tell you how much I weigh.
But I’ll get to that in a sec.
Here’s where I’m at. I haven’t exercised in two years. And I haven’t exercised consistently in five. Once upon a time I went to the gym and had a personal trainer and I did push ups and lifted weights. And I was fit, y’all. And then? Well then I had four kids in six years, I moved house six times and I started wearing clothes with elasticised waistbands and eating my kids leftovers.
In a nutshell? I pulled up a chair to the fridge and never left.
So eight years after I got married, I’m nine kilos heavier. NINE KILOS.
Let me paint a clearer picture for you.
I’m 172cm tall. And I’m currently 72kg. Which gives me a BMI of about 3256. (Okay 24.3 which only just JUST keeps me in the healthy weight range).
So what this means is that right now I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been (excluding my four pregnancies and, err, the 12 months I lived in London in the 90s). I can’t fit into my clothes. I feel unfit and lethargic. How bad is it? My stomach currently sticks out further than my boobs. So yeah, THAT WOULD BE BAD.
Which is why a few weeks ago – as yet another person glanced down at my stomach with the words “How far along are you? “ about to roll off their tongue – I made the somewhat bold move to buy myself an elliptical machine.
I figure exercising at home will be cheaper than gym fees in the long run and also give me the flexibility of exercising at home where there truly are no excuses (It’s raining! The crèche is closed! The gym is closed! Quincy is sleeping! Fin is sleeping! It’s too hot outside! I’ll get my eyes pecked out by magpies!)
Why an elliptical? No idea. Other than the fact someone told me they are better on your joints than treadmills. So here’s my plan. I’m going to actually start exercising again. Forty-five minutes a day, five days a week. I’m being realistic. Right now, that’s as good as it’s going to get.
But I figure that’s better than what I had been doing which was, err, NOTHING AT ALL.
I’m aiming to work hard enough to sweat and be out of breath. But not so hard that I can’t still watch TV or surf the net on my iPad. The best advice I’ve been given is to make exercising such a normal part of my morning routine that I don’t even think about it. It’s non-negotiable. I get up at 5am and I go downstairs and exercise.
Wish me luck.
I started yesterday and only managed to be able to do Level 5 (out of 25) but I’ll get there.
You know what’s interesting? Ten years ago if someone had asked me to reveal my weight, I would have rather eaten a box of hair. There was something shameful and embarrassing about admitting what I weighed.
I don’t feel that way anymore. Maybe it’s an age thing. Maybe it’s because at 42, I know that my weight is just one small part of who I am and what I have to offer. At 42, one thing I’ve learned is that the size of my arse has no correlation to my happiness and my worth as a human being.
But I would like to feel strong again. And I’d really rather not have to buy a whole new wardrobe of clothes.
So wish me luck on this journey back into fitness. I’ll let you know how I get on. (For anyone interested in joining me or following my progress, I’m going to post updates at The Glow)
Anyone else out there want to reveal their height and weight? And how and when do you exercise?
This post first appeared on Mamamia.
You might also like...
Over the past 25 years Rebecca Sparrow has earned a living as a travel writer, a television publicist, a marketing executive, a magazine editor, a TV scriptwriter, a radio producer, a newspaper columnist and as an author.