BY REBECCA SPARROW.
Take a seat. I’m about to tell you how much I weigh.
But I’ll get to that in a sec.
Here’s where I’m at. I haven’t exercised in two years. And I haven’t exercised consistently in five. Once upon a time I went to the gym and had a personal trainer and I did push ups and lifted weights. And I was fit, y’all. And then? Well then I had four kids in six years, I moved house six times and I started wearing clothes with elasticised waistbands and eating my kids leftovers.
In a nutshell? I pulled up a chair to the fridge and never left.
So eight years after I got married, I’m nine kilos heavier. NINE KILOS.
Let me paint a clearer picture for you.
I’m 172cm tall. And I’m currently 72kg. Which gives me a BMI of about 3256. (Okay 24.3 which only just JUST keeps me in the healthy weight range).
So what this means is that right now I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been (excluding my four pregnancies and, err, the 12 months I lived in London in the 90s). I can’t fit into my clothes. I feel unfit and lethargic. How bad is it? My stomach currently sticks out further than my boobs. So yeah, THAT WOULD BE BAD.
Which is why a few weeks ago – as yet another person glanced down at my stomach with the words “How far along are you? “ about to roll off their tongue – I made the somewhat bold move to buy myself an elliptical machine.
I figure exercising at home will be cheaper than gym fees in the long run and also give me the flexibility of exercising at home where there truly are no excuses (It’s raining! The crèche is closed! The gym is closed! Quincy is sleeping! Fin is sleeping! It’s too hot outside! I’ll get my eyes pecked out by magpies!)