Sunday 23 October 2016

Week 233- getting married, getting fit and getting a cracking pair of Spanx...

So we’re getting married.

Not just talking about it when we’re drunk, or saying we don’t want to when we’re pissed off with each other.

Properly.

Like booked the registry office properly.

And I thought, right then, I’m going to get that mythologised pre-baby body I have made up back. You know, the size eight, year round tan, boobs that don’t look like they’ve been ravaged through breast-feeding body I've totally never had.

So I joined a dance fitness class.

I probably shouldn’t have eaten the best part of a family bag of malteasters on the way there.

But fuck it.

I had big hopes that this class was going to right half a decade’s worth of wrongs so what’s another massive bag of chocolate between friends?

The first thing I realised on arrival is that music seems to have moved on whilst I’ve been listening to a combo of radio 2 and The Archers.

For fear of sounding like my mum when I was growing up….

It's just noise now.

A loud awful noise.

Everyone in the class was at least half my age and mouthing the words and I thought, OK maybe it’s just the warm up. But song after shit song came on, none of which I recognised.

Nevermind.

I’m going to be sooooo hot and young looking after this class I can get over the music.

I stumbled my way through the dance routines, eying the clock every two minutes which I think was probably going backwards.

How can I only have been in there for seven minutes?

The class must surely be ending soon.

And then the titchy instructor says the words that makes anyone with a hint of social anxiety recoil.

‘Can you get into pairs please?’

Are you shitting me? This is a fitness freaking class, not Strictly.

And as if finding a partner wasn’t bad enough (most people it turned out had been going to the class for at least five years,) one of us had to then lie on the floor, grab the ankles of their partner for support, and lift their legs in the air.

So I’m holding this woman’s ankles with my sweaty hands, trying not to look up at her crotch and attempting to swing my legs into the air. And I’m wondering if it’s possible to just do a crowdfunder for liposuction instead, when I remember how absolutely rancid my trainers are.

I have had them since I was in my early twenties and keen meaning to buy another pair or at least Febreze this pair, but I hadn’t anticipated a stranger having her face so close to them.

And I question whether getting a smoking-hot, twenty-years-younger-than-I-actually-am, catch-my-reflection-in-a–shop-window-and-don’t-realise-it’s-me body is going to be a tad harder than a couple of stomach crunches.

So I’m going to take a different approach.

As I polish off the rest of the Malteasters on the bus home I google the most effective Spanx on the market.

Job. Done.





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