In last week's Grumbler, I alluded subtly I feel, to
the ravages one’s body goes through during pregnancy and childbirth. I
forgot to mention the fury I have that some folks ping back into their
pre-children hard body good looks and the rest of us have to find various ways
to roll and tuck the excess bags of skin and fat into our burgeoning
underwear.
Following the departure south of most of my body
and faculties I took up the noble art of Pilates a couple of years ago.
Strengthening the core, improving posture and ratcheting up that pelvic floor
so it doesn't fall at the velocity of the elevator in "Speed".
The supposedly supportive people in my life do not regard Pilates as exercise
but merely "breathing on the floor". Admittedly, there is some
truth in this as I have on occasion fallen asleep on my mat. There is
also truth in the fact that while my inner core rectus abdominus and other such
gladiators around my gut have on X-Ray the strength of those corrugated sheet
metal fences you see on motorways, the outer facade of my belly area however, remains
the same wrinkled elephant’s anus it has been for the last 6 years.
What does one do in this situation? The
answer seems to be CAR DEE OH VAS CUE LAR exercise! Fat burning, toning,
muscle building, stamina improving and crepe paper belly ironing magic.
Unfortunately, I hate the gym. I tried it and gave up 6
months later after religiously doing my prescribed exercises by my personal
trainer. It did work. My stamina
improved, I lost some weight, my bat wings got a bit less flappy and I
developed a man boob shaped muscle on the back of each leg making them look
more like lady legs and less like chopsticks.
But unfortunately boredom beats results so I gave up the gym by
pretending I was not spending enough time with the children in the day and went
back to idling while the children amused themselves.
Then, I discovered Zumba! Before I go into
detail, I must preface this with the fact I only went four times and then gave
up. I will elaborate. I love dancing with the same passion I loathe
the gym and Zumba seemed a great alternative as its dancing while having a
great cardio workout. My first lesson was quite a shock. It was one
hour of high intensity dancing, moving, jumping, twisting and after half an
hour when I felt my lunch come up again and suspected the drips of water on the
floor were not the leak in the school hall roof but me, I looked at my watch
hoping we were near the end. Good heavens! Half an hour more to go. By the end of
it, I had collected so much water in every crevice I could have rehydrated a
drought ridden African village for a week. My face was on fire during our
cool down and I was trembling all over but man I felt alive. I began to
understand when people say they love the "burn". It felt good and I excitedly dreamed about
how Zumba will turn me into Megan Fox in a few weeks.
Unfortunately, three sessions later, something
dropped. And I am not talking about a penny. Let’s just say Keanu
did not save those people in the plummeting elevator. I frantically
started kegeling, for those in the know and for those who don't it’s a type of
Scottish dance. I graciously and sadly
withdrew myself from Zumba.
I searched the World Wide Web typing in "what
cardiovascular exercise will not make your bottom drawer fall out?" and
the two that came up time and time again were seated cycling and swimming. The
only place that I like to go cycling is the Canal du Midi, as it is flat.
I would also only consider riding if my bicycle had a basket on the front so I
can carry my baguette. A bicycle without a basket is basically a climbing
frame. It’s all moot anyway as I do not own a bike and Guildford is too
hilly and I would get hot, tired and out of breath.
That left me with swimming. I am a peculiar
case in the swimming world. I can swim. I can do front crawl,
breast stroke and back stroke. I have no finesse, good technique or
competence but the main problem is I can do all of those strokes in water where
I know I can put my foot down and feel the swimming pool floor. Now
technically, this is not swimming. This is walking in water.
My swimming technique is simple. Swim the
length of the pool holding my breath under water with my eyes closed. Of course, I then cannot breathe anymore, come up for air,
open my eyes and realise I have been swimming east across the lane swimmers, as
opposed to north with the current and am half way up the pool and can no longer
touch the bottom which is when I start flailing about and on one occasion in
Putney had a lifeguard approach me. We left south London shortly after
this humiliation.
So, I have decided to start swimming
lessons. There are many problems with this of course:
- The total fag of going swimming. All that removing clothes and putting them back on again
- Regular hair removal. Cannot get away with occasionally shaving and only just above the hemline of today’s skirt or sleeve length
- Holding breath during poolside strut so nobody can see pot belly
- Negotiating twisted damp pants
- Ingesting pool water, corn plasters, floaters of every variety through nose and mouth
- The fact the leisure centre has a poolside cafe. I mean really, isn't this embarrassing enough having to swim with armbands and blow bubbles in the water at the age of 38 while the slow oafs at Costa watch me.
According to Tim Berners-Lee.
It is my only hope. I have to swallow my pride along with the pool
detritus. Not only to master something
that is very important and get fit but also to avoid the accusation of
hypocrisy for the pressure I put on the children to swim well. Yes it is for their benefit to be competent
swimmers but mainly so they can rescue me when I next drown myself by attempting
to hold my breath across 25 metres of water.
