Kit for Fit(ness)

L reminded me I hadn’t blogged in a while, and I said I hadn’t had any inspiration.  Well of course that’s not true, because it’s all around, but I haven’t had time to connect all the dots of inspiration.  Then, last night, lying in bed watching Last Tango in Halifax on my iPad (rock ‘n’ roll baby, rock ‘n’ roll.  The night before would have found me watching Silent Witness in bed when it was actually on instead of on some kind of catch-up! Living on the edge…)  inspiration struck.  Very pleased with myself I was.  Then I went to brush my teeth and the bathroom light exploded and took with it all my ideas.  And perhaps I swept them up with the broken glass (how can such a small bulb make so much mess?!) because whatever I was thinking of eludes me.

But I did find myself giggling a couple of times at the very near miss I had at Zumba last night.  I’ve changed class, largely to go with L again as I like a fitness buddy so that your sense of obligation not to let them down outweighs your overwhelming desire to lie on the couch watching telly.  My old class was dark, and I liked that.  This one is held in the brightest hall ever.  We should probably watch out for planes trying to land in there.  Anyway, week one was Zumba step and I had two things distracting me.  Well three actually.  One was the fear of falling off the step and making a Wally of myself (and probably spraining an ankle).  I haven’t got particularly massive feet, but I swear this step had the circumference of a dinner plate.  Distraction number two was my pants (trousers pants, for those of you not from round here, not knickers pants.  They caused no problems whatsoever.)  No, my lovely wide legged exercise pants are too long for me.  They are too long because they are two sizes too big.  But I love them so, and who wants to spend a fortune on workout clothes for a new activity?  So the blighters tried to trip me up a few times, but ha!  I was on to them and kept hoiking them up until I was a bit Chubby Brown.  But what really distracted me was when I realised I had my t-shirt inside out…How embarrassing.  Cherokee from Tesco displayed for the world to see.

For week two, I was smarter than the average bear.  No lovely pants this week – leggings!  The absence of a trip hazard enhanced my stepping greatly, although didn’t add any additional co-ordination.  Don’t you hate it when you realise that you’re the wrong way round to everyone else?  Oh, just me then.  Anyway, a couple of days later off I leapt to ordinary Zumba.  Back to the pants.  Told you I love them.  Was actually a different pair to the first week, I’ve got three identical pairs.  I told you I love them!  I thought I’d be ok because of the flat floor and no step.  But no.  Turns out, it’s tricky to jump about it a pair of pants that are two sizes too big.  I could feel them going.  So I had to hold on to them and hope that I didn’t take my eye off the ball. 

I’ve got to get some new gear.  I don’t want to.  I’m not a sportswear kind of gal.  And if I’m honest, I’m a bit tight about it.  I don’t want to pay a fortune for decent brands when I’ll wear it for an hour a week and sweat on it.  But then I don’t want to be wearing non-brand brands that everyone will identify as being straight from the budget lines at Sports Direct ( I know I shouldn’t care, but I think there’s a real minefield in sportswear that marks you out as all different things – proper sporty person, posing sporty person, scally sporty person possibly-about-to –burgle-a- house person and the not-really-sporty-at-all-but-trying-to-get-fitter-but-of-course-was-the-last-person-to-be-picked-for-a-team-at-school kind of person).  So I need to start a search.  At least everyone else is on their New Year fitness kick and so the shops are full of it.  The adverts and displays are full of hard-abbed slender beauties, showing off their golden washboard midriffs and shapely calves.  Then you get it home and it looks like vanilla blancmange escaping from a support bandage (which reminds me how last week, Mother, on seeing my uncovered legs as she took in some pants for me (unfortunately not the workout pants…) asked had I run out of fake tan.  Porcelain, Mother, porcelain!).  So, if you know where I can get bottoms that won’t trip me up, fall down or make me look like blancmange or sausage skin, and tops that are fool-proof (or look the same inside out…) let me know.    Feel the burn!