Week 239- jogging, eating Twirls and getting lapped by an 80-year-old...

I’ve started running.

I’m a runner.

That sounds loads better than ‘I’m a mild jogger who keeps getting lapped in the park by a guy who must be kicking on 80.’

My ‘thinspiration’ was by daughter asking for the millionth time if I had a baby in my tummy.

I did.

I told her.

Two years ago.

‘Then why’s it still so big?’

I love that girl but sometimes she’s one question away from a headlock.

So, I thought, maybe now, NOW, as the scales of time tip slightly closer to 40 that 35 (poetic way of saying 38 this year) I should consider getting fit for the first time in my life.

So I considered it.

And considered it.

And after polishing off the rest of the kids’ Easter eggs, Googled ‘getting fit.’

Don’t do that unless you want to scroll through 37 million options.

And then I remember an App my mate had told me about. I couldn’t remember the name, but it was something about being bothered to get off the sofa to get out the house.

So I Googled that instead.

And found it. An NHS podcast called ‘Couch to 5k’.

Now, I have never been fit EVER. I don’t mean that in a ‘I’ve never won a race before’ or ‘I find it difficult to smash my PB at swimming.’

I mean I joined a gym to sit in their sauna.

I used to go to a spinning class cos I liked the music and would free wheel for 30 minutes.

In fact I’d prefer the indignity of wrapping myself in cling film and sitting in 40 degrees to lose weight than putting on a tracksuit.

But I thought I’d give it a go.

My running outfit was questionable at best. A pair of trainers I bought from TK Maxx about twenty years ago, the leggings I wore whilst pregnant with Thomas and a T-shirt I wear in bed. But at least I have a sports bra I was given for free when me, my mum and sister did the Moonwalk 10 years ago in London.

Sporting a pair of self-consciously massive headphones I headed out the house, and pressed play.

Now, the first thing I liked was that it was a woman narrating it.

The second thing was she was northern.

And the third was she told me how brilliant it was I was doing this before I’d even started.

Win, win and winaroo.

Week one- I ran for a minute intermittently three times a week.

Ignore the fact I was only running for a minute at a time- and read the bit that said I did it THREE times.

That’s right. The woman who spends the whole of a yoga class waiting for the guided meditation at the end to have a quick nap, has dragged her sorry ass out of the house THREE times in a week.

I couldn’t understand how my brain had over-ridden the urge to crack open the Merlot the moment the children had gone to bed and see if Michelle snogs her childhood love in Corrie.  

How, after nearly four decades of lethargy was I suddenly running?

(RUNNING! Paaaaah! I wish you could see me; yesterday a woman carrying three heavy Sainsbury’s bags overtook me. But my legs are DEFINETELY moving faster than when I walk.)

I think of myself as an independent, motivated woman.

But it turns out, what I actually need is someone telling me EXACTLY what to do.

When to run. When to stop. How brilliant I am for doing both.

I haven’t seen any major changes.

This may be partially due to increasing the number of Twirls I’ve been eating to reflect the number of runs I’ve been on.

But never mind. According to the women, I should, by week nine, be running 5k effortlessly three times a week.

So look out world. In two months time I’m going to be a machine.

And to my daughter…

In your face, little one.