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Northern Mum

Crossfitting, pancreas acting, single mum to three

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Dancing to death..

“And hold, 2, 3, 4.”

“And jump; higher; HIGHER ladies.”

Pain rips through my reddening body, sweat drips down my back nestling uncomfortably in my knickers, and I jump, pathetically but I jump.

In front of me the gym instructor grins, unaware that I am moments away from death.  As I ‘grapevine’ across the floor I wonder briefly what the cause of death will be if I expire in the studio.  Can you blame the class or would it be more appropriate to blame two beautiful years of sitting on my arse drinking Pinot, eating delicious truffles.

I would blame the class.

The degree of my own unfitness is astounding.  The day before, I sat on the bike in the gym and my cheeks squealed in protest.  I cycled for one minute and began to ambitiously envision pedaling from London to Paris.  I cycled for three minutes and began to think the Pru 100 mile race through London was probably more realistic.  I cycled for five minutes and stopped thinking altogether as the sharp stabbing pain in my thighs made all rational thought impossible.

I made it to 10 minutes before I part climbed, part fell of the bike, making a strange sucking noise as my part of my lycra stayed glued to the seat with sweat.

I fared no better on the treadmill or that other instrument of torture; the cross trainer.

So I decided to stick to classes until my basic fitness increased from downright embarrassing to pathetically piss poor.

And here I am again, at Zumba, thrusting my hips in a way that would make he who helped create them think seriously about trying for a fourth child if he could get some of the gyration in the bedroom.

My samba step needs work, apparently, my cross step is awful and my tango is tacky.  I nearly broke my ankle trying to pivot in a circle, whilst jumping towards the ceiling and screaming ‘hey’ in a motivated fashion.

Today I adopted the theory that if I was doing this fitness m’larkey, then I was really doing it.

My busom was secured by two bras, my thighs clad in lycra.  I discarded the sweaty oversize t shirt in favour of a vest top and tried to ignore the flapping of my wings.

Then I hit Zumba with a passion.  I was creative in thought and imagined I had necked a few vodka and red bulls before hitting the dance floor.

Which is how I ended up in this position, moments from meeting my maker, inches from death in a Zumba class.  For thirty minutes I had done ok, clearly my lack of coordination meant I was jumping when others stepped and clapping when the rest were clicking, but I was sweating and leaping and twisting in a way Louise Spence would approve of.

I was officially exercising with enthusiasm.

But with 15 minutes to go I had seriously over done it and was knackered.  I reached into my inner fitness guru and tried to access emergency stores of glucose.  Turns out wine and chocolate don’t convert well to energy.  Am gutted as it seems I spent two years growing fat not energy – why did no one tell me?

“HIGHER” called the instructor and I tried to make my feet leave the floor but I reckon the woman next to me had tied my feet down with lead when I was trying to work out my chachacha.

How I survived I don’t know, sweat blinded my sight and I flailed and stumbled through the last minutes of the class.

At one point I manage to squint through the water pouring of my forehead and see myself reflected in the mirror.  Today I was looking like a black lycra python who had ingested a small child and had a tomato for a head with a tonne of wet look gel pasted on my barnet.

Not my best look.

I sobbed a little with relief when the stretching started.

I may have wept with happiness when I got back to the changing room.

I may have moaned in anger when I stood on the scales and saw that sweating and jumping and coming so close to death had only increased my body weight.

But at least I am still breathing – I have that to be thankful for.

Photo Credit

Comments

  1. LauraCYMFT says

    October 3, 2013 at 8:19 pm

    Maybe I shouldn’t have read this whilst eating a Daim bar *pokes belly*. Good on you for carrying on! It’s for a fab cause!

    Reply
  2. @PookyH says

    October 3, 2013 at 8:33 pm

    crikey oh riley. You’re dedicated. I’m in a bit of a hole this week and have taken the ‘I am too tired to run, the rest will do me good instead’ approach to my marathon training. Back on it next week (I hope…)

    When I was seventeen I could run for miles on end without pausing. I seem to have forgotten I am no longer 17 and need to put some effort in 😉

    Good luck, and remember, death is not a requirement! xxx

    Reply
  3. Coombemill says

    October 4, 2013 at 7:48 am

    I would love to go to your class, does that make me really sad? Our zumba stopped and I really miss it.

    Reply
  4. MishMashMamma says

    October 4, 2013 at 7:52 am

    Ha ha! This had me in giggles. But at least, you are exercising whilst I’m building up more reserves of fat in case I need it in an emergency?!!! Love the way you write!

    Reply
  5. Lauranne says

    October 4, 2013 at 1:24 pm

    What do you mean chocolate and wine don’t make energy, surely all the grapes and calcium has to have some benefit? Please tell me there is some benefit??!

    Reply
  6. Michelle Twin Mum says

    October 7, 2013 at 12:08 pm

    Well done Jane, You’ll be fit in no time! Mich x

    Reply

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Jane is a working Mum of three and has great hair. One of these things may not be true.

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