I know that sitting on the couch right now is a bad idea. It’s 8.30pm and I know that sitting cross legged on the couch could possibly be the difference between being able to sit on the toilet in the morning and making it to the car. It hurts. Everything hurts and right now, it’s that good hurt. That hurt that makes you remember that your muscles aren’t just for walking into the shop to buy cake – that’s the hurt we are at. But the niggles are coming and I can hear her in my head telling me to stretch one more time and reminding me that a hot shower would be a better option. But I’m not. I’m here, cross legged on the couch with the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt on in the background too loud because I hurt too much to turn it down, about to tell you about my session today. About to make Jodie READ my feedback of her damn program and make her work just a little bit in return.
I was excited about the new program. She put flamingos and dinosaurs all over it. I still can’t work out if she was just being fun because she loves me or she was being a manipulative bitch. (I’m prepared to believe both.) When I read it, I knew it was going to be tough. There were parts that I knew I would love and while most of the exercises I did like, a few of the sessions scared the bejesus out of me. Today was one of those. But fuck it, I said I’d do it, and so I did it. Well, most of it…
Warm-ups. Three sets of shit I’ve done before but without a kettle bell or a viper. That’s ok, I’m at school. A roll of butcher’s paper became a viper and a foam roller and four dead Dell laptops took the place of a kettle bell. The enthusiasm to begin was commendable. Jess Glynne on the iPod and I stepped over that roll of butcher’s paper like it was a real viper. I smiled at the cleaner who was probably hoping I’d just put it all back where I found it, grinned at the remaining teacher who scoffed leftover pie while hiding in the kitchen and shoved my arse awkwardly in a bear hold at the maintenance man who I’d never seen before. Wearing active wear at work is always problematic.
The program said jog – I walked from work to Kangaroo Point. Down to the river, up the first set of stairs and along the top. The sweat lines from my warm up and ‘jog’ to the park, I had decided, were enough. Done, I’m stopping. Geez that was lovely. Then the fit people actually jogged past at that point and left their abilities to converse while exercising in their wake. Fuck it. Keep Going.
When you get to the park at Kangaroo Point in order to do exercise the issues are confronting. Today I watched two grown men piggy back each other up the stairs and walk up them on their hands, I watched a woman crawl on her hands in some subverted version of downward dog and I watched this other man slide his arse down the rails of the steps and then in a single movement jump across the concrete step at the bottom. Fuck it.
I jogged and wiggled my arse in laps around the park. The program said 500m. I said, No and did a lap around the park. I did the rest of my first set. Five rotations, four exercises – and one lap (not 500m) of a run at the start of every one. For the most part people happily ignored me. One lady gave me a huge grin as she lunged her way across the park, but most of the fit, good looking people just kept running. By the end of my fifth set, my arse fat hurt from wobbling, my quads burned and I could hear every footstep slap the concrete as I waddled around the park.
When I checked the program for the next set my horror was probably audible. A 300m run, stairs and a couple of other things for another 5 reps. And this is where my self preservation cut in. Nope. Nuh. No way. Not even. No. Just Fuck Off. I could not run one more lap of that park. There was no more. So, I didn’t. I’m sorry this fucking super hero went on strike and Jodie, your first instinct was right. That was a fuck load of running and I didn’t make it. But I didn’t stop. I looked at the rest of the program and minus the second set of running, I finished it.
When I made it to the stairs to do my first pass, I apologised profusely to the piggy backing boys and promised to stay out of their way. ‘I’ll just stick to the far left’ I murmured and looked nervously at my feet. ‘It’s totally ok,’ he said. ‘You’re doing really well.’ And it wasn’t dripping with sarcasm or mockery – I think he actually meant it. They both smiled and then they ran beside me. One on top of the other. While I certainly appreciated the sentiment and the encouragement, they carried each other faster up the stairs than I could run.
By the end of that set, and a stretch, I had finished both Jess Glynne and Megan Trainor albums and I sat on the edge of the steps hoping that an Uber ride back to work wasn’t out of the question. It was, I had no wallet. So the long ‘jog’ (I walked) back to work began and I plonked myself home through the fit people, the drug dealers masquerading as fit people and the dregs of backpackers BBQing on the cliffs. I was tired, exhausted and over it in more ways than one. But I had not stopped moving through two entire albums. I had put on my active wear and was active, albeit at some points with stationery, the whole entire time.
So no Jodie, I didn’t do all the running. I didn’t measure the distances but I didn’t stop either. I finished it without that extra 1.5km but I did everything else and an extra set of stairs. I ain’t no super hero, but today I’d settle for batman. (He’s not real super hero you know, he’s got no powers.)
life in big frilly knickers 