|
I'm watching my reflection in the mirror. It's January, and I know that I've overindulged, but the lighting hits my second chin differently in this light. I move this way, observing the softness of my stomach. I move the other, catching a glimpse of back fat spilling out of my bra.
"Listen here," I address myself. "You have two choices. Embrace the curves or do something about it."
Even as I give this affirmation to myself, I feel my bottom lip quivering.
The following night I keep myself up by looking at active wear and models on Instagram. My husband softly snores beside me; I take this as a sign of encouragement and purchase two new sports bras (extra supportive for the girls) and four pairs of high-waisted leggings (to keep in the rolls). I go to sleep with big dreams of being able to run the London Marathon by May.
*
"What the fuck is all this?"
My husband has just signed for the active wear. It comes in a large Lulu Lemon branded bag and he wrestles it into the kitchen.
"We need to start thinking about getting fit. I mean, we're not getting any younger, so this is my first step in the plan," I say.
He snorts. "Whatever you say. Remember when you wanted to try doing all our cooking from scratch? Paid for all those lessons and then went to two before proclaiming that having to press your own tofu was 'too middle class for the likes of us'. Remember the painting class we took? Remember how - in the first session, mind - I had to look at another man's dick for an hour whilst trying to keep a straight face and to paint the fucking thing? Remember when we -"
I'm giggling already. "Yes, yes, okay. This is different - I promise. Join the gym with me, please. Our first month is half price if we sign up for twelve!"
"Twelve months! Jesus Christ, you're in it for the long haul, huh?"
I nod. All the past failures were failures for a reason. Now I'm armed with Lulu Lemon and follow twenty new fitness Instagrammers. It has to be different this time.
"Fine," he relents. "I'll come to the first session with you, on the condition that it's free. Is that satisfactory?"
He gets a kiss in response. I take the package and run to the bedroom to try on the new outfits.
*
We pull into the car park of the gym. I'm wrestling with the high waisted leggings in an attempt to cover more of the rolls. My husband looks exasperated already.
As we enter the reception, I see all a collection of intimidating twenty-somethings taking pictures of their bottoms, contorting their bodies into angles I had never seen before, let alone could attempt myself. We sign up and I swallow my pride as we make our way through the turnstiles.
"No thoughts of backing out now. We've come this bloody far," my husband warns.
I smile in reply, but - in truth - I'm shitting it. The machines look as though they could be used for torture. I head for the running machines to begin, forgetting that my left knee can be a bit dodgy. Grimacing, I move to the cycling machines and only manage ten minutes. My husband is already on the free weights and I realise that he's betrayed me and done this before!
"You didn't tell me you knew how to do all this stuff!" I exclaim.
"I used to go all the time, back in my uni days. They say it's like riding a bike, but after seeing you on the cycling machine I don't think that applies to everything," he laughs.
I walk off in a bit of a huff. There's a woman doing circuit training and I slyly attempt to copy her from afar. I realise I can't even do five sit ups in a row without feeling quite sick. That's when I decided that the gym wasn't for me, I liked being curvy, and my time could be spent doing something a lot more productive, anyway. Who wanted to be able to take a million photos of their bottom?
*
Not only did my husband betray me. Oh no, he signed us up for a fitness challenge. I'm stuck with the bloody gym membership and have to come to a class twice a week. TWICE a week. I think about feigning a serious injury. Or emigrating to Canada. Divorce was definitely mentioned during our 'discussion' (aka argument). Moral of the story: don't make any resolutions and, if you do, don't tell anyone. Not even your closest loved ones.