Thursday, 15 October 2015

Sloppy (Almost) Seconds

“Nic finds there no better indicator that she had her meal too late than attempting to do her normal evening session of strength-training including bent-over rows, triangle presses and kettle-bell swings.

If you don't know what they are, they all involve bending double and throwing weights around while trying very hard not to prompt a repeat performance of dinner."

To be fair, I thought the forty minutes on the elliptical trainer might have helped a little before moving onto lots of leaning all over the shop trying not to drop the hand-weights on important parts of my anatomy like my head and my nose, but, alas, I was proved otherwise. Instead of helping aid my metabolism and get things moving from um, higher up to lower down, I merely succeeded in giving myself indigestion and an impressive ability to burp along to some of the most popular hits of the Eighties. I have much to learn in the ways of waste management. I do, I have discovered, know most of the words to the songs on all six volumes of Essential Eighties Classics, so there's that.

I used to work-out on the trainer in front of the telly, if you'll remember from a previous post, but had to start listening to something, anything through headphones, because the poor behemoth started falling apart slightly; even with gentle handling (or at least gentle handling once I realised that for much of its life with me, I was over the recommended weight for use) and careful applications of WD40, my valiant, brave, and slightly doddery Sir Domyos EL5500 had started rhythmically clicking and whirring as I turned the pedals. As much as I appreciated its worth and faded glory, the noise drove me mad, even through the headphones connected to the telly.

The next stage was to start working through the hours and hours of classical music on my MP3 player, but although there are good roistering numbers, movements, even complete works (boy, those late Romantic and early Modern composers must have had ears of steel to cope with such extended periods of rambunctious cacophony) suitable for inspiring a long-term depletion of energy, there were still enough slower, quieter sections that didn't really blend well with the external syncopated sounds of an asthmatic, peg-legged pirate walking up and down the deck of a hollow iron-clad ship. 

And so I turned to the popular music of the nineteen-eighties. And marvellous they are too, not only in initiating inspiring gasp-a-longs, but also in drowning-out the ever-more penetrating swan-song of Sir Grinds-a-lot. Who was also a pirate in his hey-day. Obviously.

But unfortunately neither Bonnie Tyler, The Pet Shop Boys, nor The Clash could really do much to help with my tardy tea-time troubles (you can prise my love of alliteration out of my cold, cadaverous claws), so I had to approach my hand-weights with even more care than normal. 

You'll remember the Wii-boxing self-punching saga? (Or, :: cough :: all of them?) Well, you can imagine that having not so strongly attached, and much heavier things on the end of my arms had already inspired in me great feelings of fear and awe, so adding to that a general need to keep certain soft and digesting parts of my anatomy out of weight's reach, while also making sure that any bending over wasn't completely stomach-emptyingly efficient rendered the general calorific depletion of the evening's workout rather less than usual.

Have I learnt my lesson? Will I remember to keep a good few hours between eating and any exertion whatsoever? Yeah, probably not. I have, however, leant that tricep kickbacks are really quite good for helping release trapped wind!

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