A Vicious Cycle

I have purchased actual, grown up, exercise equipment. 

It will alarm you all to be made aware of this, but I do not fall into the category of 'athletic'.

Please, keep your gasps to a minimum.

Previously, if I had required fitness, I would get my heart rate cardio the normal way; walking into a room my children had abolished and screaming at them until someone slammed a door.

To shed the post-birth baby weight, I gave those Wiggle concert DVD's a level of effort that would make Jane Fonda proud, but once the kids had outgrown waving their arms like Henry, it seemed silly to do so on my own.

Although I live in a household where sport is worshiped as a religion, I find participation in fitness tedious and repulsive. I will happily criticize my team for failing to perform magic on a football pitch, while I sit confident in the fact that I would need a nap and a strong coffee if I were asked to walk the length of the goal mouth. 

That was my reality, and I was at comfortable, horizontal, peace with it.

And yet, I opened social media each day to find requests from avatars in brightly coloured lycra, each promising me better versions of myself. Trips to the grocery store were peppered with women in head to toe active wear, doing little more activity than squeeze-testing avocados. Ads for gym memberships and innovative sports bras interrupted every one of the cake tutorials I was watching on youtube. Friends were using terms like 'meal prep' and 'challenge'.

Infomercials were leading me to believe that if I stood on a vibrating board for ten minutes a day, I could lose every centimetre of jiggle, when I knew very well that if vibrating for ten minutes was all it took to firm up muscles, every woman over thirty would be rocking a six pack.

What had happened to the world? Why were you all suddenly clamped between layers of breathable compression fabric? Where were you all running to? 

No, I will not drink the whey protein coolaid, thank you very much, you bunch of instagraming cult affiliates.

Of course, one would always love their arse cheeks to re-inflate, but one has been taxiing children around extra-curricular activities all afternoon and now needs to prepare dinner.

I'd found living on the cusp of a nervous breakdown tended to shift enough weight off, still I felt consumed by this persistent expectation to be, sigh, 'motivated'.

The pressure the screens of my devices put on me to look desirable in fitness wear is a burden and nuisance. Also, I have very little muscle memory left of how to walk in flat shoes.

Driven by this, I consulted the internet to test both sides of the equation, and accidently purchased an exercise bike.

Understandably, me with exercise equipment is a collection of unfortunate juxtapositions. It's like that guy we all date at some stage, that has a huge penis but no idea how to use it. It's political leaders posing for photos with warcraft they have no idea how to function because it makes them look important. It's a pointless clash of comical errors.

I stood back from the newly assembled bike and thought about my end game. Yes, I want my body to be fit and healthy and strong. And be JLo. No, I don't want to evoke the spirits of bootcamps.

Sorted. Me + correct equipment = instant results. Obviously. I could just look the part and skip the bit where I became an all consumed gym wanker. I was now prepared, and conveniently the only gym in my life would remain that of John Krasinski. I would absolutely embark on this new me... tomorrow. Or Thursday after next. 

Day after day, I woke up and gasped in horror when it appeared I was still not Jenny From The Block. 

What was the missing link? Was there a button I hadn't pressed? When would I feel the overwhelming desire to workout, or was that sold separately? 

To the Instagram I went, in search of what the insiders called ‘fitspo’. Inspire me to be fit if you must, I said to the world. Convince me it is worth not hitting the snooze button.

One promised they could make my bum look perky. One could flatten my stomach that had housed two kids. One could stop my arms waving independently of my will. One could give me the energy to run fast and for more than a car length, should a zombie apocalypse break out. One could make me super flexible, should I ever need to brush my hair with my toes.

They all promised me results were worth the pain. That I would feel energised and uplifted. That endorphins would lift me to levels of euphoria. That I should relax on the coffee intake. That I could achieve mental clarity. That my youth would start pulsating back into my cheeks. Wait, what was that bit about the coffee? 

First of all, how dare you. Secondly, chocolate exists and will flood your euphoria in much better timing.

I wanted to be this. I did. But I am not that person.

I don’t want to wear matching active wear ensembles. I don’t even think I have actual clothes that match that well. I want to enjoy that whole ten minutes I have each morning when Soccer Hubby gets out of bed and I can stretch across his side, cocooned in the blankets until my alarm chimes in.

If I am attending a yoga class, I want that instructor clad in ethically shopped harem pants and to think ‘Lorna Jane’ is just someone in their 3 o’clock meditation class, the way Buddha intended.

I want to open social media and not feel like I should be doing so from a treadmill.

I want to be all the things, but just a more customised version.

Is that too much to ask?

So I have set my challenge. I have pushed my new exercise bike to the edge of my mattress like an impractical bedside table. The only exit or entry to my side of slumber, is via the bike. I sit perched unwillingly upon it in my mismatched Star Wars pyjamas and Harry Potter slippers. Once positioned, I scroll through the pages of Instagram models who tell me I should have my hair in a topknot and a headband to match my socks. Filled with uncontainable frustration at this stupidity, I peddle away my aggression while screaming at my children to find their shoes.

I am basically a motivational poster for fitness.

If ever you do catch me jogging with pace, and it is not in pursuit of an escaping child, might I suggest you follow, as it could only mean I am being chased by zombies and the apocalypse is upon us.