Tim is running a marathon next year. I know, he is p r e t t y intense and very impressive.
I have no concept of what running 26.2 miles actually means (since for me it would only mean prolonged but certain asphyxiation) so I will leave the imagining to him. What it means for the moment is an exercise schedule including long runs, even longer bike rides, and the wearing of much lycra.
I am sort-of happy about the lycra, in that while lycra itself is a bit gross by definition, there is also so. much. leg.
What it also means is that he comes home starving and ready to eat like Henry VIII on weed. I join him in this endeavour, because I am a supportive wife. But I am not burning an extra 900 calories on a slow day, dear readers. So he’s eating a pig-inside-a-duck-inside-a-turkey and banging his mead goblet on the table, feeling revived, and I am eating the same and only feeling greasy and bloated and sad.
This is a problem. I love a marathon man, and I am an exercise-hater. We are basically the Romeo and Juliet of Sports Direct. The only exercise I ever enjoyed was dance class (a LONG time ago) and the yoga class I used to go to, pre-babies. I’ve never found a replacement. All other forms of exercise I have tried make my cells weep. I have done it, because I feel I should. But I hate it. Do you hear, Pinterest quotes superimposed over sweaty abs? I. HATE. IT.
It seems deeply unfashionable to be an exercise-hater at the moment. My Facebook feed is full of Zumba enthusiasts and excited spinners. There’s also, you know, the science (heart health! endorphins! ability to punch robbers in face!). Don’t worry, fellow exercise-haters: I am unlikely to start posting about My Fitness Journey any time soon. But all this proximity to sweating and good health has made me realise that, busy or not, exercise-hater or not, I need to start earning my own goblets of mead.
And I will. In October (probably). When things settle down. When I don’t have quite so many Doctor Who episode blogs to read at 11pm. Until then, to ease the guilt, I have compiled a list of STEALTH EXERCISES I’m doing right at the moment. If you are a fellow hater, you might find these helpful.
– carrying fifty pounds of boy up and down the stairs when they’ve both mysteriously lost the use of their legs at the same time
– continual manhandling, assembling and lifting of the HEAVIEST PUSHCHAIR KNOWN TO MAN
– sprinting up a flight of stairs after hearing an unmistakable ‘face in toilet’ kind of splash
– elevating heart rate by holding breath during abominable nappy changes
– elevating heart rate by stumbling over a silent toddler in the dark hallway at 1am on my way back from the bathroom
– using all possible muscle strength to prevent the Tesco trolley that always veers to the right from crashing into the Pringles aisle
– full-body-wrestling Teddy, the human demolition ball, into a set of clothes every morning
– squeezing self onto toddler-sized slide and pulling self out by sheer force
– 5pm – 6pm, where NO ONE WANTS TO BE PUT DOWN, EVER.
Doesn’t that make you feel better? I should put this on Pinterest. If anyone would like to apply to be my sweaty abs, send cover letters to the usual address.