Category Archives: Fitness

How to have a yummy bum

Like many women, I struggle to love my bum. It’s a bit wobbly and a bit pale. It’s also currently sporting a couple of well-placed mosquito bites, but that might be too much information for you.

Anyway, what with the wedding coming up (I know, I know, just humour me for one post – it’ll be over soon) I have decided to try and do something about it.

So I attempted exercise – and wet my pants. I tried those buffer scrubber things that supposedly get rid of cellulite – and ended up with a behind to rival a baboon’s in redness. Continue reading

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Filed under Baby stuff, Fitness, Weddings

Sometimes it’s hard, to be, a woman (dum de dum de dum)

Despite my opening title, I’m not going to wax lyrical about a Tammy Wynette classic or advise you to “stand by your man”.

No, instead I’d like to talk about that wonderful subject: weight. Post-baby weight, in fact.

It’s a tricky one. I’m like millions of other women in being unhappy with my size. I don’t know why exactly, I’m not big. In fact, I’m smaller than I was before I got pregnant with Frog. But still, I’m not happy. Continue reading

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The perils of postnatal exercise: Part IV

Everything hurts.

From my hairy toes up to my double chin, my body is on fire (and not in a sexy way).

So, for those of you who are new here, I will elaborate. Five weeks ago, in a fit of I’m so fat I need to lose my baby bulge desperation, I signed up to Bootcamp. And instantly regretted it. But I’d already parted with my money and, because the (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine made a bet that I wouldn’t stick it, I’ve carried on.

And boy was that a mistake.

Tonight consisted of running around a room, stopping, and then running again. We also practiced a new form of torture called The Plank. Yes, it is as scary as it sounds. And we did terrifying exercises with weights. Not to mention the press-ups and tricep dips. Oh, and the running. Did I tell you about the running?

That was my downfall. I hate running. I hate it even more after tonight. After last week’s flatulent car thief episode, I was aiming to keep a low profile. But the running put paid to that.

It was when we started to jog that I felt a pain in my boob. That was when I realised that in my haste to breastfeed the baby, put her to bed and get out of the door on time, I’d forgotten to do up my milk bra. (I believe the correct term is “nursing” bra, but you get the idea).

Before you question why I wasn’t wearing a sports bra, I will tell you: I don’t have one. Nor does any half sane person I know. Who actually has underwear specifically for sporting activities? Really? And anyway, aren’t milk bras pretty similar? They’re massive and particularly unflattering.

Clearly not. As milk bras undo like this:

So, imagine a woman running around a room, with one full breast lolling about in front of her, clearly visible through her thin T’shirt. Then imagine said woman galloping around in a circle of fifteen others, facing inwards, trying to discreetly tuck the stray lolloping breast away without drawing too much attention to herself or flashing to the entire circle.

Yep, it’s impossible. I am now a hairy toed, pants-wetting, flatulent car thief with a penchant for flashing one full breast at anyone unlucky enough to be looking.

Watch out Katie Price, that’s all I’ll say on the matter.

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The perils of postnatal exercise: Part III

It’s happened again.

The ritual humiliation, pain and constant pummelling of self-esteem. The sweaty socks, sweaty pants and sweaty bum crack. The sickeningly toned beautiful people. The hot room, the weights and the constant never-ending bouncing-bloody-squats.

Yes, it’s Bootcamp time.

After the pants-wetting and hairy toe episodes of last week, it’s fair to say I’m the least popular Bootcamp victim. But just as I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.

Again, I made a promising start. I survived the kettle bell drill. For those of you unfamiliar with this method of torture, it involves standing up, bending down, lifting, pushing and bouncing. All while holding a heavy weight and doing your best not to fart.

I also survived the running back and forth across the room while being shouted at. Without wetting my pants. Or farting.

All in all, I was feeling pretty smug. And sweaty.

But then I got to the car park. I wasn’t in the best of shapes. The smugness was giving way to a dazed and confused feeling. With a bad case of trapped wind.

The car park was dark. It was cold. I was scared.

I fumbled in my pocket and grabbed my key. The trapped wind was turning into a stabbing pain deep in my stomach. I pushed my key into the lock and…nothing happened. I was getting desperate. As the pain intensified, terrifying scenarios started to run through my head…I’m going to get mugged, I’m going to have to ring the police, I don’t have my phone, my car’s broken down, the baby’s going to wake up and I’m miles from home. I’m going to get mugged…

And then a sharp tap on my shoulder.

This is it. I’m being mugged. It’s actually happening. Please don’t hurt me.

I turn to find one of the Beautiful People staring angrily at me.

Turns out I’d only been trying to get into the wrong bloody car. The sheer relief that I wasn’t being mugged was all too much. I could hold it in no longer. Yep, that’s right. I did a massive trump.

Great. So now I’m a pants-wetting, hairy toed, flatulent car thief.

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The perils of postnatal exercise: Part II

Everyone knows Friday nights are for drinking wine. Everyone that is, except the sickeningly toned and beautiful people who run Boot Camp.

This is the Boot Camp that I signed myself up to, in an I’m so fat moment. The Boot Camp that I instantly regretted joining. The Boot Camp that I’ve paid more than £60 for. The Boot Camp that the (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine has money on me packing in next week.

Well I’ve proved him wrong so far. I’ve now completed my second session of humiliation and pain. And because I’m a woman of my word, I will share the whole sorry episode with you.

It all went rather well at first. I ran (or sort of rolled) a whole mile without stopping. I did bouncing squats without wetting myself. I even managed a full press up (sort of). On the whole, I was pretty pleased with myself.

And then came the Pilates.

They never told me we would have to take our shoes and socks off. The thing is, when you have a baby you don’t have time to think about your feet. And it shows. Boy it shows.

I am now the least popular person at Boot Camp. No one wants to do The Triangle next to someone with feet like mine. I won’t go into too much detail, but in the past I have been known as Mrs Hobbit Foot.

So what have we learnt after Lesson Two? Wax your toes. It pays to be prepared.

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The perils of postnatal exercise

There’s nothing quite like an exercise class to make you feel rubbish about yourself.

Last night I took my first step to getting back into shape after having my baby. I know, I know, she’s eight months old now, haven’t I left it a bit late? J-Lo was back pumping iron after six weeks, you say? Whatever. I am lazy. I won’t deny it.

Anyway, it was hell. Pure, unadulterated hell.

The thing is, this experience of pure, unadulterated hell is one I will have to repeat twice a week, for six weeks. Because I’ve paid for all the lessons already. And I have a bet on with the (self proclaimed) Northern Love Machine that I won’t drop out.

Seeing as it’s too late for me to save myself, I thought I would commit the utterly selfless act of being the exercise guinea pig. I will undergo a twice weekly humiliation, for your benefit. Every time something awful happens at one of these classes, I will share it with you. That way, you can gain all the virtuous experience of an exercise class, with none of the humiliation.

So, what have we learnt after Lesson One? Don’t do bouncing squats if you’ve had a baby in the last year. They make you wet yourself.

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