Keeping it up

Since living with my SP, I have embarked on an exercise programme that is one of the most intense that I have ever endured (and I think the word 'endured' really is the key there).

I have found out that obliques is not a type of exercise and is in fact a muscle group that I apparently have underneath the dense layer of flesh that surrounds my midriff. I have learnt what a plank is and have gone so far as to vaguely master the technique (although gym instructors the world over would no doubt look at my technique and strongly disagree). I have developed an unconventional technique for my running, but its still a technique of sorts, and no longer have quite so much of a lollop associated with my strides.

I am mastering the art of whacking a punch bag with all my might and dodging its swing on the return journey. I can endure an astonishing amount of squats and lunges (although you'll have to take my word for that, only the members of our Wednesday Bums, Legs and Tums class are privy to such an unattractive sight and I tend to hide towards the back so my appearance isn't quite so offensive for other members).

I no longer eat upwards of 6 slices of bread a day (this from the girl who took Home Economics at A-level where she supposedly learnt the merits of a balanced diet, but I found out that you could get all 24 essential proteins from beans on toast and from that moment onwards, all other useful nutritional information was repelled by a wall of heated bread, which might explain why I didn't do as well as I'd hoped in my exams and can now only remember that the B group of vitamins are for energy and the rest do, err, other things...). Unfortunately I have had to considerably up my soya intake to counteract this dramatic loss of carbohydrate and now have beans for breakfast (in yoghurt form, oh the wonder of soya) but it tastes not wholly dissimilar to a breakfast related product so that's good enough for me.

I have been living with my SP for 5 weeks now. In the first few weeks, I noticed a pleasing alteration in my figure. The disappearance of back-fat may not have been noticeable to the naked eye, but the unsightly overhang that I tried to keep hidden from the general public (to varying degrees of success) has reduced and I have even developed muscles beneath the remaining wads of fat distributed around my midriff. All was going well. And then the weight loss gradually ground to a very definite halt. And with that, so has the reduction of my back-fat. I still have a very noticeable ring that I have to remain hidden under lengthy tops and have to continually tuck in behind the denim of my jeans.

My SP and I are toying with the idea in an increase of our toning exercises, to reach our desired figures. However we have both been expressing a caution which I can't quite seem to shake.

So we lose the weight. We tone up to our optimum figures.

And then what?

That's the thing isn't it. That's the real key point. Then we have to keep up that routine, that exercise class, that lack of bread, that consumption of apples instead of far more satisfying food groups, for however long we wish to attempt to retain our figures.

This realisation isn't sitting all too well with me. I have exercised in some form for specific weight loss purposes since being in school. I have attempted numerous exercise classes and activities. I even used to go to running classes on a Thursday evening (although the ratio of running to gossiping was extremely poor, but at that point I was still holding on to the whimsical thought that perhaps weight loss could be achieved through sheer volume of talking, come on there's got to be some calorie burning in that somewhere).

I have been utterly useless at the majority of exercise classes I have attempted. I have co-ordination and rhythm (although being nothing to write home about) but that's about where it ends. Speed, stamina and ability to perform any of these exercises effectively I never quite got. When it comes to sport, I have no competitive bone in my body. If they want to put the ball in that net and they have a sever amount of determination, well I'm not about to stand in their way. Even when I am Goal Keeper. If we lose...well, when I'm playing losing is usually a dead cert so I've no idea what winning feels like (although I did once win doubles at tennis in school, but then I was playing with one of the school tennis geniuses and I seem to remember standing still rather a lot).

But I have persevered regardless. I will attempt anything to burn a calorie or two (I manage to entice my body fairly easy, usually with the promise of alcohol).

This time I had a goal. I was determined to get off that plane in Auckland and (overlooking my flight addled appearance, unwashed body and crumpled clothing) look fit. But with the postponment of my trip, I am realising that I am going to have to keep up this regime for a little bit longer. I'm damned if I'm gaining back fat. My boyfriend will never believe I lost it (apart from the fact he's had to endure me whittering on about it in numerous emails).

I know several girls who have never exercised and weight just seems to avoid them like a repelling magnet. It just doesn't seem to be interested in settling down on their tiny hips. And, as is usually the case with such examples, they can eat whatever the hell they like. My boyfriend, while clearly not being a girl, is one such example and manages to burn off calories just through rotating his eyeballs. He burns calories just thinking, I swear. And he eats enough in a week that would probably keep me going through til Christmas.

My metabolism has lost the plot completely (if it ever had a grasp on it). It plods along idly, with no real awareness of its pleading, desperate owner. I bribe it with exercise, goad it into productivity, but it seems fairly unaware of my existence and assumes that it has no alternative speed other than backwards. I work with that, after battling against it for years, and pretty much eat as well as feasibly possible, and for someone who is most definitely not going to stop drinking copious amounts of wine.

So, I have a lifetime of intense exercise stretched out in front of me. For the immediate future, I have weeks upon weeks of exercise classes in order to prove that there really are the vague definition of muscles hidden in the dark recesses of my fatty tissue.

There has been another noticeable change in my body since this programme began. Last time I lost weight, when I decided that eating copious amounts of dairy really wasn't doing me any good any more (despite how damn good it tastes), my body, thoughtfully, gained stretch marks.

This time, because for some reason my physical appearance seems to really enjoy exploiting the vulnerability of my mind and manages to effortlessly rub me up the wrong way on numerous occasions, this time I have another little gem which is starting to make me truly doubt whether this is all worthwhile.

My chest has shrunk.

I guess I should be pleased that they've both shrunk together, to keep each other company, and I haven't been left considerably lopsided. But really, if my body had just asked, just questioned whether this was something I'd have been interested in, I'd have been giving a firm no to the goahead on that decision.