So, isn’t the deal with joining a gym that you instantly lose a stone, and then several subsequent pounds every time you put a pair of trainers on?
I’m back at my old gym.
By ‘back at’ I mean I’ve set up a direct debit and carry around a sense of guilt for not actually going.
I’ve tried one class.
Which was murder.
It’s not just that everyone on the entire planet is fitter than me, it’s that it’s learning a whole new language.
I thought a burpee was a cutsie way of referring to wind.
But it turns out it’s a torturous series of exercises where you go from lying down to jumping up mega quickly; subsequently putting the strength of your pelvic floor to the test.
I’m not a vain person.
You only need to look at the state of my current wardrobe, which is mainly the staple mum uniform of striped T-shirt and white converse with a pair of jeans that give me a 24-7 builders ass, to know that.
But I am getting married next year.
Pictures to mark the occasion might possibly lurk on the top of a family members piano for years to come.
I want my children to look back at the day and think, wowzers, my mum looks immense.
Instead of, was it the trend in 2017 to wear trainers and an ill-fitting T-shirt to your own wedding?
So I’m going in, I’m starting to take the gym more seriously that it just being a monthly reminder on a bank statement.
I’m going to buy a pair of leggings that haven’t been through two pregnancies.
I’m going to get rid of the sports bra that smells like the inside of a trainer and gives about as much support as a Satsuma net bag, in favour of the kind of thing they wear at the Olympics, all streamline and luminous.
I’m going to set personal bests.
And I’m going to smash them.
But, as with all good ideas, they start on Monday.
So first I’m going to get under a duvet and eat all the chocolates out my advent calendar in preparation for tomorrows new me.
I am all over this fitness thing already.