If you’re reading this, that means you’re somewhere around the zone I was about 6 years ago, post pregnancy, post breakdown; when I caught sight of my ramshackle self and not only didn’t recognise my face or body, but I was wearing the clothes my mother had purchased for me from Bon March as opposed to throwing them to the back of the wardrobe! Ace Ventura had better dress sense. I could have passed for an extra in Macklemore’s Thrift Shop video. If you could have seen me, you’d have been looking for the white stick and accompanying Labrador!
Don’t get me wrong I would do it all again in a heartbeat. Children paint the world in colour, along with your walls and floor, and make you believe in magic again. But if someone had have warned me beforehand that I would spend a year on laxatives and attend countless hospital appointments after my fu-fu was left resembling a portal for the Prince of Darkness himself, I may have thought twice. At the time my vagina developed a ‘victim’ complex and could be found rocking by a window in a residential home hugging itself for comfort.
I’m no good if I approach food/fitness in a regimented way, as I have a very strange place in my brain that obsesses and can easily flit from grossly under eating to binge feasting multi packs of Monster Munch and copious packets of Foxes biscuits until I’m fit to hurl!
For me it was a moment after dropping the kids off at school and nursery when I came home and just stared at myself and wasn’t sure where I had gone. I was a wife and a mum, and I performed those roles okay. I might not be competing for a podium finish but I attempted a personal best each day. But I’d not just lost touch with the girl that mistook sangria for Ribena and sank half a litre before attempting to disembark a pedalo at sea, I’d buried her.
I love Bourne for so many reasons, but truthfully the hook for me was when he was searching his reflection feeling so utterly lost. That was me at that time, well most of the time if I’m honest. I felt around my hips for bank codes but the only item deposited was a generous helping of muffin top and I was bloody sick of ruching my tops to hide the spillover.
Then I started to ask myself #WhatWouldJasonDo?
My mum’s a Slimming World pimp, always has a magazine within arm’s reach ready to lure you in with her banter. You come away feeling a little sullied, like she’s greasing you up for potential recruitment.
But I owe it all to that psychedelic skirt! Every time I looked in the fridge and whispered ‘I just wish I knew how to quit you’ to a block of cheddar I thought of that Woodstock inspired garment and removed my gluttoness ass from the path of temptation.
Fitness was harder. The first time I got back on a treadmill post babies I genuinely couldn’t stop looking down in horror fearing my vagina had fallen out or at the very least I’d re-delivered the afterbirth! The trouble with attending gyms is not only do you have to battle your own body, but they hang bloody mirrors everywhere, so you can witness the struggle at every angle! I discovered quickly that I have three levels of fitness:
Lobster Blush – 10-minute effort where I enthusiastically conjure images of myself imitating Rihanna flashing some side boob followed by 5 minutes of bitter reality accepting I’m more likely to be mistaken for Father Ted’s housekeeper Mrs Doyle.
Distressed Rhubarb – at least half an hour workout attained and sweat is beginning to show. I’m smiling smugly giving myself a mental high five for wearing all black #NinjaMummy
Jaundiced Beetroot – the ultimate level. I’m bright red with alarming patches of yellow randomly afflicting my person but I’m in the zone like Billy Hope of #Southpaw and channeling all my gremlins not to mention melting that blasted mum tum.
I’ve still got a little way to go, but it’s a much more manageable amount of belly jelly than the postman caught jiggling to my first dance DVD.
Remember your body is incredible, look what it has done for you this far, all you’re doing is improving an already stupendous product.
Best go, the skipping rope won’t jump itself, hopefully this time I wont slap myself on the back of the thighs – it’s the closest I’ll get to 50 Shades *bites bottom lip*.