This Lockdown Life: Slimming down the fridge trips, biscuit tin raids and fondness for daywear pyjamas
As we enter week 7 of lockdown, Cate Wilson realises it's time to shape up...
Last week saw the arrival of spring as we know it. And by that I mean rain, rain and even more rain in Bishop’s Stortford.
With the sun loungers packed firmly back in the garage and the days of sitting in the garden with a glass of wine in one hand and a Nobbly Bobbly ice lolly in the other a distant memory, it was time to tackle an issue which was looming ever larger in my life – my waistline.
Even before lockdown, I was not exactly at my physical peak and had already begun pondering whether to embark on my annual panic diet triggered every spring by the first sighting of white trousers in shops.
I think we are all familiar with what happened next. Hourly trips to the fridge and raids on the biscuit tin, coupled with a new-found fondness for leggings and daywear pyjamas, merely exacerbated an already burgeoning problem, and beneath the elasticated waistlines and unstructured tops, a grim yet cuddly truth was emerging. I was getting fat.
The first step was to admit I had a problem. Lowering myself gently onto the scales and with eyes scrunched almost shut to avoid reading the monitor, it was apparent that even with one hand on the washbasin and a leg wrapped around the shower appliance, it wasn’t budging below the red zone.
It was time for action – and not of the half-baked family ‘fun’ variety either. I say that in jest as you may recall an early family flirtation with Joe Wick’s PE sessions which had to be abruptly abandoned due to a mistimed bunny hop. At the time, I refused to be disheartened and had continued with young Joe the following morning on the grounds that, well, how hard could a children’s PE lesson be?
I found out the next morning. On waking, it appeared my limbs were clad in hot metal. My legs had all but seized, to the extent that all movement below the waist was now rendered impossible. The only route to exiting the bed was to hurl myself lemming-like over the edge before slowly inching across the floor to the bathroom in search of pain relief.
To the alarm and, it has to be said, general amusement of the family, the rest of the day was spent travelling in small crab-like movements around the house, with meals having to be eaten standing up due to an inability to bend at the knee.
However, some weeks later, this early foray into physical activity was all but forgotten. I was back and raring to go, warmed by the lockdown restrictions allowing 30 minutes of daily exercise outside. This was more like it: the great open road where I could jog at my own pace, exchanging a friendly hello with other like-minded fitness types along the route.
Unfortunately, the road outside now resembled the M25 at rush hour. Dog walkers sprang from every angle competing with families, buggies and cyclists, all desperately trying to get some fresh air while avoiding falling foul of the two-metre rule.
Undeterred I pressed on, wheezing and gasping for air while occasionally flailing my arm at a passing jogger in greeting – a move which seemed to arouse alarm rather than solidarity from my fellow runners.
Only later did it strike me that the sight of a wild-eyed woman in what appeared to be the later stages of acute respiratory distress may prove unnerving in the middle of a coronavirus epidemic. Perhaps jogging wasn’t going to be my thing after all.
Since then I have successfully enrolled in my friend Mandy’s online Pilates and fitness classes after she gently suggested I might want to try building my fitness first, rather than risking further injury and public humiliation out on the streets.
So far so good. I’d love to say a new sylph-like me is emerging and that my days of blaming the sudden disappearance of a box of mini rolls on the teenager are over, but small steps have been made.
For now, at least, I have stepped away from the scales. I mean who needs to read bad news at a time of national crisis?
