Exercise

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.