Muscle Amnesia

“Nic continues to mistakenly believe that, just because she studied ballet for 10 years before a knee condition stripped her of athletic ability at 13, any cardio-ballet workout will be a doddle, somehow forgetting that thirty years have passed with nary a plié nor arabesque to be seen.

#iHurt #KneesStillDontWork #UglyDucklingPuddle"

Yes, in a way it's just like riding a bicycle - once you know how to do it, you don't really forget. Muscle memory is a powerful tool in many respects, but muscle memory is not, repeat: is NOT the same as constantly putting those muscles to use over a long period of time. Anyone who's just ridden a bike for the first time in twenty years will tell you they're a bit wobbly at first, but then their subconscious and sense of balance will kick in, and they'll be pretending they're on their old BMX/Raleigh Racer in next-to-no time. Then they'll tell you the next day that they can't walk because their thigh muscles will have decided to shorten to half their original length, and that they're being haunted by the ghoulish pressure of a too-small, too-hard saddle between their cheeks, and can't actually sit down.

Yes, remembering the mechanics of how to do something you used to do a long time ago is so very much not the same as actually having done it continually over the years...

First position? Pff, please you don't have to remind me what that is!! Wait, I can't get my heels to touch because my calves are getting in the way... Hang on, let me really push them... Um, I don't remember my Achilles tendon twanging so much before, that can't be normal.

Second position grande plié. Ah, that should be fine. It's like a sumo squat without the pain. I SAID WITHOUT THE PAIN! Ah yes, my knees still don't work, but I'm sure that using my knee-supporting muscles, whichever ones they are, it'll be fine. Knees are supposed to grind and pop nowadays, aren't they? Add a port-de-bras first to fifth (holding a cardio ball) while you're dipping, and back again? Ok, but I'm not sure my core appreciates that its day off has been cancelled. There's a lot of internal moaning going on... More than usual, anyway.

Split-squats opening out into a low arabesque... I.. Oof. I seem to be too over-encumbered with booty to raise my leg more than a foot off the ground behind me.

I cracked open an old book of Haydn sonatas the other week, not having looked at it for years. Possibly even fifteen years. It lives sandwiched between my vocal scores, with some other piano music from That Time Before Singing, but I spotted the blue ABRSM cover and was overcome by a fit of nostalgia, opened it at an old favourite and sat down to play. Needless to say my actual piano technique has been shot to hell after being neglected for so long, but even though I stumbled a bit, my fingers, on the whole, remembered where to go. After a decade and a half! Then I felt my tendons in my lower arms twitch, and after half an hour of pretending to be Maria João Pires I had to close the book, and gingerly wrap my wrists in the elastic supports I have to use after a particularly long session typing up my thoughts on to my computer.

So yes, that cerebral muscle memory can be a double-edged sword, but practise, as they say, makes perfect less pain. Then again, practise also gives you the ability to do something you couldn't do before, too...

I visited Sorghvliet park last week to pay homage to Spring and her ability to carpet the place in bluebells for a month every year, and actually managed to crouch to take a close-up photo; a basic human ability robbed from me in my teens. But not only did I manage a crouch without too much creaking and complaining, I also managed to get up without my knees demanding that I get on all fours before attempting that tricky Standing Upright manoeuvre as they've done in the past. 

Those afore-mentioned knee-supporting muscles with whom I'm only now becoming acquainted might come in useful, after all...

Jessica Smith, I hate you, but I love you, too.

Muscle Bound

“Nic never felt so stiff and sore, in constant need of a good stretch (and something to steady her cup of tea) in the days before working-out. Surely there's a lesson to be learned there? 

True, she couldn't walk and talk at the same time without gasping for breath in those days before working-out, but at least her muscles never felt the need to complain about overwork! 

#ObliquesOfDeath #TricepKickbacksKickedBack #ThereAreAbsUnderTheFlabAndTheyHateMe

#ParallelUniverseSilverLinings"

All joking aside, it's quite horrifying to realise that there really was a time when I couldn't walk and hold a conversation simultaneously. A time when I'd seriously strain a hamstring attempting to climb off a chair after changing a light-bulb. A time when a trip to IKEA was looked on with trepidation thanks to the the mountain of steps to be climbed to get from the train- to the bus-station (and thence on to the store). Seriously. I love IKEA, but those steps would put such a downer on the whole trip that not even the promise of Swedish Meatballs would be able to save the day completely.

Yes, now I'm on the exercise bandwagon, I know it's not really advised to come off, either losing weight-wise or health-wise if you want to maintain weight loss, vigour, and/or flexibility. But don't get me wrong; if I could stop exercising tomorrow and not suffer from muscles turning to fat, depletion of strength, the inevitable weight gain, and a whole host of other detrimental health issues, I'd already be scribbling out a long list of TV series to binge-watch every evening for the rest of my life while vegging-out on the couch, instead of clicking on YouTube, and beating myself up with a variety of torturous exercise implements six nights a week.

I am not one of those born-again exercisers who only live for the time when they're sweating their guts out, whilst simultaneously, and loudly, spreading The Gospel Of Burpees. No. I shall leave worshipping at the Altar of Exertion to the sweating zealots (a band name for the taking if I ever heard one). But I do have to admit to enjoying the benefits of raising my heartbeat significantly for an hour or so at a time and of taxing my muscles to the point of fatigue, and truly appreciate not having to worry any more about people accidentally sitting on my lap when I'm travelling on public transport, because they thought they were going to sit down on my coat lying bunched up next to me on the other half of the seat, and not actually land upon my spreading thigh.

I mentioned this exercise con (as I'm now calling the exercise bandwagon in my head on days I'm aching more than normal) to a friend of mine - you know; beginning a new regime with good intentions, not realising that, like pets, it's for life, not just for [after] the holiday celebration of your choice, that is if you want to maintain the good work you've achieved so far - and she agreed that it is probably just as well that those at the start of a new workout programme, health kick, or attempt to lose weight aren't made more aware that once your body begins to get used to being punished, it needs more. Well, more of the benefits the punishment and suffering bring at least, and the stinger is that if you're hurting the best way to ease the hurt is to do more of the same!

So the only answer to workout-induced aches are more workouts, which seems rather unfair in the whole positive scheme of trying to better oneself, but it's probably just as well most of us don't know The Truth when we start out. I'm not 100 percent sure that had I been given a notice saying ‘Congratulations! You're about to embark upon a life-changing regime. It's going to be hard, and you're going to hurt a lot, but the benefits will be amazing! Disclaimer: you'll never be able to stop once you start because exercise malady begets exercise remedy. Vengeful God, Old Testament style' I'd have been quite so eager to start.

I exaggerate, of course. I'm only really complaining because I ache an awful lot more now than I did when I was a couch potato; a time when the only heavy lifting I did was the dragging of my larger self from place to place, and the only ‘cardio' my heart got was the straining it had to do all day and every day just to keep me upright. Ah, good times, good times!

In essence I was punishing myself a thousand times more per day back then than I do now, in an unhealthy and unconscious way, but even though I think I've now tipped the balance in my favour, I still maintain the right to lament over the fact, yes fact, that tomorrow my rear, thighs, mid-section, and upper arms will be ruing the day four years ago when I first picked up that Wii remote and changed my life!

Great Balls Of Frying Pan Into The Fire

‟Nic's day started off poorly. The electrician who was called to fix the faulty bathroom light did so by properly screwing in one of the 3 new light-bulbs already tried by your author. It appears her wrists are pathetically weak when faced with these new-fangled CFL bulbs. :: sigh ::

The day continued in a better vein, however, when 2 parcels arrived from her very kind little sister, one containing lovely things for Christmas (which may or may not include chocolate), and in the other 3 kettle-bells of differing weights, which will not only help work off that Schrödinger's chocolate, but will also strengthen up those obviously weak wrist muscles. 

It's almost like she knew..."

The postie rang my door buzzer and presented me with a rather large and heavy parcel from Amazon the other morning, and once I managed to drag it upstairs and open it up, this was inside (well, this plus and awful lot of packing air pockets - Amazon do seem to enjoy sending their wares in disproportionately large boxes, and this one was no exception. I don't have photographic evidence, because, really, I think we've already seen more fantastic examples of ridiculous packing practises on social media, so you can use your imagination!

Now, I have to point out that I was not responsible for the order (I know, I know; that spoiler was already broadcast in the status, but bear with me), so I made a bee-line for the little card glued to the top of the box, which read:

The blanked-out name is my sister - the Queen of Sarcasm! (A very kind, and benevolent queen, it must be said!) She had ordered some kettle-bells for herself when I was last at home and we were both fair taken with them; they seemed well made, looked great, and handled nicely. Or as nicely as we could tell by pretending to work out then and there in her kitchen, whilst also trying to avoid squishing her box-loving kitties.

To understand the full meaning of the note, you need to go back a couple of years here on the blog, and you'll find a post or two :: coughs :: (I shan't be winning Miss Graceful Co-ordination any time soon) about my extraordinary gift for thwacking myself in the face with various supposedly weight-losing, health-improving exercise tools whilst attempting to work out. I can't quite remember the last occasion I committed actual bodily harm to myself (although no doubt it's not that long ago - I stopped taking note once it became obvious that the first three or four times weren't going to be isolated incidents) but one thing's for sure; I'd be left with more than a graze or two and a bloody nose if any part of myself was on the receiving end of one of these babies:

Two, three, and four kilogram kettle-bells from DKN. (Not an affiliated link, but maybe I should start thinking about touting for business... Or maybe not. I suspect most makers of exercise equipment don't really want to be associated with Little Miss Clumsy here.)

Aren't they pretty, though? (Hey, sis - the blue one'll go with my kitchen!! Sorry, private joke. Ach, not so private - most of my El Cheapo accoutrements de cuisine, ranging from plastic spoons, to mixing bowls, to sets of kitchen knives, to silicon cookie mats, [hey, I forgot I had that - this blog is coming in very handy for rediscoveries of all kinds] are turquoise. It started with a whisk in France, which is a lot less exciting than it sounds... A little shop opened up near me, selling all sorts of wonderful kitchen gadgets and aids, but it was all a tad out of my price range, until I saw the silicon whisk in a tantalising turquoise blue. It was love at first polymer compound.)

But getting back to the pretty cannonballs with handles, I can tell you that the pink kettle-bell has already been put to the test in a kettle-bell inspired video workout by my online trainer of choice, Ms Smith of JessicaSmithTV fame, and I think my arms and stomach muscles may stop complaining in the next day or so.

I'll keep you informed once I have control over my upper body again...

All Workout And No Moan...

“There's nothing quite like sweating through a painfully efficient workout followed by a hot shower in a cold bathroom, then stepping into a toasty pair of pyjamas and settling down with a cup of tea to unwind, and realising that you still have to take the rubbish out for tomorrow's early morning collection and it's blowing a gale and pouring with rain outside."

It was a good workout, though, comprising of three videos from Jessica Smith TV; one a yoga/strength-training mash-up, one more general aerobic circuit training, and the last a power-walking workout:

I admit to being a sweaty mess by the end, but one of the great things about the myriad of videos available from this online trainer is being able to choose a combination of exercises influenced by how I'm feeling, or what I think I need to concentrate on, which then become my nearly daily hour of self-induced torture health-improving cardio and/or strength-training. A pot-pourri of pain, if you will, or a pick-and-mix (for those of a British disposition) of muscle misery.

I moan, of course I do. It's hard work, and I make it even harder work for myself by pushing as physically hard as I can safely can, but in a positive let's-try-and-improve-my-quality-of-life way, not in a negative I-hate-myself-and-want-to-feel-even-worse way. Even though, yes, I moan about it. But as we both know, complaining is half the fun!

As a tiny, but relevant aside, I had a lovely catch-up with a dear friend recently, and conversation turned to jobs, bosses, earning a living, and that although we sometimes weren't keen on what we had to do or who we had to work with, we were glad (in a it-could-be-worse way) that we had the possibility of someone to rail against, something to throw our frustrations at, and in that respect we were fortunate because otherwise we might instead be railing at ourselves, perhaps even to the extent of hitting self-destruct buttons. 

So in rather the same way, I moan about putting myself through challenging workouts, but in this case choosing to shoot the video messenger with my grumble gun, instead of shooting myself in the foot for being the one to impose such hardship in the first place.

I purposefully make it hard work for myself because I came to understand early on in the exercise process that you get out what you put in. I reckon that if I did my workout half-assed (as our American cousins so colourfully describe it) instead of whole-assed (or whatever the equivalent is) it would more than likely lead to retaining the full form of my entire derrière (and other wobbly bits that I want to de-wobble) for a much longer period of time, and therefore I'd have to work twice as long for the same end result than I would if I had thrown my entire energy at the workout in the first place.

Now, I know the mathematics, statistics and number-type thingies may not be so easy to manipulate (wordz ma thang, yo) so half-assed workouts may not precisely mean half as many calories lost, or twice as much work needed to create the same result, but you get the picture. I'm not really a lazy person, but if I can get my calories burnt or my muscles fatigued in an hour while sweating hard, instead of two hours of playing along with the videos, then I'll go with the first option. And, although my claim to a lack of numerical aptitude is true, I'm of the suspicion that one hour of full energy and muscle use, and two hours of perfunctory fannying around do not the same calorific deficiency make.

So I try to push myself to ensure I'm getting my money's worth (I'm Scottish - this analogy works for pretty much everything) out of this exercising-at-home-using-free-YouTube-videos lark by making sure they're intense, and then I moan about it. But I'd be moaning more if I knew it would be taking me twice as long to get to this chapter in my weight loss and getting healthy story just because I didn't give it my all in the first place!

But excuse me if I also moan about having to get changed out of my cosy jammies, and drag my rubbish bin down two-and-a-half storeys and out into the cold and rain. It's truly grumble-worthy!

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!

Jessica Smith TV

I've mentioned the YouTube videos that I used for workouts maybe only a couple of times, which is, in the whole scheme of things, a massive oversight considering the extraordinary effect it's had in helping me in my struggle to lose weight.

I can't remember any more when it was exactly that I first turned to the internet for help, but I know it was after I started with the 5:2 intermittent fasting, so it has to be after the Summer of 2014. 

I don't mean to make it sound like it was an awfully long time ago for something so recent, after all, it's only really a year since I started using these videos, but because I can't really admit to enjoying making myself feel sore, tired, and sweaty on a daily basis, the time hasn't really flown by. So yes, it feels like longer than it really has been. Yah, boo, sucks to be me.

But I am in danger of rambling off onto different subject paths, (as is my wont in real life; I can follow my own stream of logic aloud and not realise I'm doing it until I see peoples' faces glaze over in confusion. It is a thing.) so I'll bring myself back to the subject at hand, and that subject is Jessica Smith TV.

I first asked (although I suspect, given the context, 'begged' is more the verb we're looking for) the internet for help after a particularly gruelling Wii session that included lunges and squats, both of which I couldn't do (and I still can't lunge) because my knees were screaming at me to stop after the merest suggestion of bending and bearing weight. Every tendon, every ligament, every muscle connected with this joint were in cacophonous harmony; shouting out together that this movement would only end in tears. And possibly tears. (Ah, English. I love you.)

I searched for exercises to help bad knees, and this is one of the first examples that was listed: "The Best Lower Body Workout for Bad Knees" by Jessica Smith:

Yes, perhaps not quite the answer to my not-really-concise question, but there was something in this video, perhaps the tone of her voice, perhaps the feeling that she knew we were hurting yet didn't make us feel useless, perhaps the presence of her cute little doggy, that hit a chord with me. She works in a tiny space, yet doesn't let that stop her pushing you hard. She gives a great commentary without sounding too peppy and American. (Sorry, Americans. I love you and your up-beatèdness, but it does jar rather against my Scottish pragmatism for certain things. Having someone shout "git on wi' it, ya big lump o' lard, or yi'll aye be a fair disappyntmint tae yirsel'!*" instead of "Yes, keep going, that's right, only a few more, don't you feel GREAT?" is not a comparison I've been able to make as of yet, but don't think I won't try it out to see if I can prove myself right if I do ever find a hardened Scots workout instructor online. You know, this might be the niche in the market I've been looking for... "Och, dinnae dae whit ah dae, dae whit ah sae, ye bowsie numpty!"** "Aye, bend doon like yon bauchelt wifie, an' howk up yir haund-wechts ower yir lugs!"***)

*Get on with it, you large person, or you will always be a real disappointment to yourself.
** Oh, don't do what I do, do what I say, you well-padded idiot.
*** Yes, bend down like a crippled old lady, and pull up your hand-weights above your ears.

Once I'd managed to grunt my way through this first video, I decided, instead of limping for the hills, to see what else this not-too-peppy dog-lover had on offer, and I was immediately (read: the next day, once I had control over my leg muscles again) taken with her wide range of walking exercises. 'Walking exercises' sounds a wee bit you're playing at exercise, but in reality they can be exhausting, and range from simple routines (this is the first one I tried):

to mashups of walking and yoga, walking and weights, walking and dance, walking and intervals, walking and step aerobics... More than enough for me to be getting on with. Over the months I've managed to progress onto more intense workouts, including strength training:

barre/strength mixes:

cruel and unusual blends like kick-boxing ballet:

to delightfully comprehensive (read: I'm not sure I'm supposed to bend like that) stretching routines:

and I've found Ms Smith to be quite the agreeable online workout taskmistress. (In a 'I wish I didn't have to workout at all, but this'll do until I've miraculously lost fifty pounds and am promised life-long perfect weight-maintenance by a now-contrite, formerly weight-bestowing guardian spirit' way.) I guess I should be glad that there's over three hundred free workouts to choose from so far, plus a new workout added to the list pretty much every week, because I think I may be waiting a wee while yet for that guardian spirit to make an appearance.

Pin The Fail On The Chunky (Choc Chip Cookie Recipes)

"Nic is considering finding another location to keep all her online workouts in one place, because Pinterest just isn't cutting it. There are too many brownie recipes, and cookie recipes, and cake recipes to trawl through, like an army assault course for her overwhelmed imagination, before she can even get near her own set of calorie-killing videos!

Man, serving two gods is really tough!"

I think I wasted half an hour suffering from Oo-Shiny Syndrome tonight before I remembered I was looking at my Pins to decide which Jessica Smith workout videos I was going to put myself through and not lose myself in a sea of savoury scone recipes. I was already in my gear, my yoga mats were on the floor (they help deaden any noise I make so I don't frighten the downstairs neighbours), and my music stand was ready to hold my darling Galaxy Tab that I use to play the videos. Worse, I didn't even get to MY Pins, I was stuck on the page that has Pins from people you know, Pins from people you don't know but have Pinterests in common, Pins from Pinterest itself suggesting things you might like. So many cookie recipes! And I don't think I'll ever find the end of the page that has an infinite variety of banana bread.

I need internet blinkers.

You Spin Me Right Round, Baby, Right Round

"Nic continues to exercise the hope that she works best with unorthodox weight-loss methods, after spending an hour hula-hooping her corporeal self to the spiritual delights of The Great British Bake Off!"

I'm loving this hooping lark! Okay, it's not real hooping in the almost gymnastic sense that you see on YouTube - I have neither the dimensions of room nor control of my limbs to allow any fancy-schmancy arm and leg and dancing about shenanigans, but I have just enough control of this rotating glass-breaker (yeah, RIP water glass, your brave sacrifice to the hooping arts will not be forgotten) to be able to squat a little, move from side to side a little, and shimmy a little while doing my best gyrating hips Elvis Presley impression.

I have no idea if I'm doing it right or not, but I finish feeling like I've worked hard, and I do manage to break into a decent sweat, so something is certainly happening body-wise. To what extent that has to do with the actual exercise, or the presence of Paul Hollywood on my TV screen I couldn't tell you. I appear to be developing a penchant for silver foxes, but in this case I don't know how much that has to do with the general scrumminess Mr Hollywood (which, to be fair, is considerable), or the amount of cake on screen.

Hey, this far into the game I have to take my inspiration wherever I can find it, and if it involves losing weight and baking (even in this most abstract of forms) I'm going to run with it. Or, you know, twirl around with it. The combination of cake and weight-loss is, after all, my modus operandi!

Climbing Gear

"Nic is holding a minute silence for the demise of her trainers. A few hundred miles on these Primark specials were obviously too much for the poor things..."

But you know, for eighteen euros, or however much they cost me a few months ago, they've done me well. Yes, yes, I should have bought a proper pair of walking shoes, for not only would they last much longer, they'd support my foot, cushion my arches, protect my tootsies, and enhance the whole walking experience, but, pfff - my budget doesn't permit that kind of frivolous behaviour, and saving up for a decent pair means time spent not walking, and I've noticed that as soon as I pull back on the exercise I stop losing weight. Well, okay, I've stopped losing weight - I'm mid-plateau just now, and frustrated as hell, but any lessening at all of the amount of cardio I get in a week, or a hundred more calories a day, and the weight starts to creep back on.

It's so frustrating. I know; we all plateau when on a weight-loss journey. It appears to be the nature of the beast. I experienced it my first year. I lost two stones, sat there for a couple of months, then managed to put one back on again (although this was before I'd discovered the 5:2 plan, which kick-started the whole thing off again). I've ground to a halt once more, just further up the mountain. The view is stunning, and although I can see base camp, and the camp 1 (if you will) I'm now stuck at camp 2 walking in place and going nowhere.

Of course, physics decrees that I just need to eat even less and exercise even more, but then this turns into a Diet, and not something I can sustain for a lifetime (something I'm hoping to achieve with the 5:2 plan, and regular exercise.) I want to change my life, hell I HAVE changed my life: I eat really well, I exercise five times a week for an hour at home, plus I go for a well-paced walk of at least an hour and a half at least three times a week. I'm at the stage now where I get antsy when it's blowing a gale and chucking it down, because it means I can't get outside and go tramping around the neighbourhood.

I still have so much to lose. In all honesty that figure should be fifty pounds more, but the weight I'd be comfortable trying to maintain would depend entirely on how much loose skin I can cope with. My face has aged considerably as a result of the hundred pounds loss already, with so many little wrinkles and laughter lines that used to be stretched-out and made flat by my 'natural fillers'. And please don't mention my burgeoning jowls where my pudgy apple cheeks once were. My upper arms, or bingo wings as they're affectionately (and generically) called back home, are half-empty and rather more like flapping wings than before, the skin on my thighs, butt, and knees are noticeably saggy, and my tummy skin is concertina-ing in strange ways. I can cope with these just now - it's the price for leaving it until 'middle age' (eek -gads) to figure myself out, I guess, when your skin just doesn't ping back into shape like it might have done at a younger age. 'Tis the Fate's decree that I'd have to wait until now to be in a place mentally strong enough to cope with this emotional climb, and I just have to suck it up, as our American cousins say.

So, if you need me this afternoon, you'll find me sucking it up down in the shoe section of Primark.

It's My Birthday And I'll Eat What I Want To

"16,000 steps must surely equal 1 slice of birthday chocolate berry mint cake?"

And a cup of ginger coffee, made with real stem ginger. So very good and tasty, and worthy of my :: coughty-cough :: years on this earth!  

What a wonderful day - I walked to and around the Japanese Garden at Clingendael in the early afternoon, walked back to town to partake of home-made (by the baking geniuses at Swags Central, not by me!) chocolate berry cake (real name 'Halle Berry Cake') and a cup of ginger coffee, then went on to cocktails (oh my, happy hour every Wednesday night). A really lovely day, spent with really lovely people.

But yes, I ended up with over 18,000 steps recorded on my pedometer band, so I think that should have covered at least a portion of that cake, which was sheer chocolate heaven, and had I only only managed two thousand steps instead of nearly twenty thousand it would still have ended up being enjoyed by your author.  Because birthday.

(It's like a cross between a torte and a cake, with the 'healthy' components (which I considered one of my five-a-day) of raspberries and fresh mint to add a little bit of bite. So very good. I recommend it. And the carrot and orange cake, the apple pie, and, well, pretty much everything.)

I'm pretty thankful for those cocktails, though, because I think my calves may be too inebriated this evening to berate me for over-use. We'll see how annoyed they are tomorrow, once recovery (read: the hangover) sets in...

Abandon Hoop, All Ye That Enter Here

"Nic has given herself more bruises, bumps and scrapes in one hour attempting to learn how to use a weighted hula hoop than in all 3 years of getting healthier-related hurts. (And yes, that includes the weighted wrist weights/punching one's face Wii-boxing debacle!)

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger? Hope so - Death By Hula Hoop would look really naff on a tombstone..."

Many years ago BE (before exercise), when my home town still had an Argos, (a UK catalogue retailer), I was convinced that buying a Davina McCall soft foam, jointed exercise hula hoop was the way forward in whittling down my waist. And it would have been, too, had I not fallen for the biggest con in the book: that one size fits all.

So. Not. True.  

I had no idea that a basic 'hoop diameter - hip girth = optimum rotation' formula existed. Well, it doesn't per se, as I just made that up, but there will be someone with a head for figures both mathematical and corporeal who can make sense of the fact that if you have a small hoop, and a large body, the chances of making more than one rotation before the thing falls to bruise your heels are small to none, and no amount of gyrating will keep it up around your hips, or waist, or wherever it's likely to fit. There's just not enough inner hoop space. Or whatever it's called.

I really must get round to learning the technical language of hooping.

So that blue and yellow Davina hoop spent the next mumble-mumble years separated into its six sections, trussed up in a cotton bag, no doubt admonishing me for my waste and neglect in its own broken-down, hoopy way before I finally came to terms with the truth; that going by my own weight/height/frame ratio I'd have to be about a size fourteen to really benefit from its use.

We took an emotional trip to the second-hand shop on the corner, hoop and I, but I know it's in a better place now, being loved by someone who won't ignore it and leave it languishing between empty suitcases and old decorating paraphernalia.

And in the spirit of of our modern throwaway society, I replaced something that still works, with something that is bigger and shinier.

Oh, okay, I'm being a little hard on myself here, but I have to admit feeling a little ashamed having spent money I didn't really have on something I barely used, then giving it away to a charity shop. But 'tis true, I did find a bigger and shinier model on eBay, a weighted hoop of a much larger diameter, complete with half rubber balls on the inside to, and I quote, "massage the waist".

I'm not usually one to fall for the massage your fat away rubbish, so I feel the need to point out that the reason I bought this hoop was purely a monetary one: it was cheap, and the postage was free! (I believe the phrase you're looking for begins with "You can take the girl out of Scotland...")

But bumps and scrapes? Oh yes, in painfully plentiful supply. I think the first ten minutes gave me a good sample of the many ways and means in which an innocent hoop can inflict injury. I won't give you a list, but let me say that the rest of this first learning experience was made with your new hooper standing in a circle of sofa cushions, tube bandages protecting her ankle bones, and all loose clothing thoroughly and closely bound.

And it still wasn't enough. The Hoop. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Cheap Frills

"Nic made the difficult decision to buy heavier dumbbells instead of trawling eBay for smaller clothes that fit. Difficult because... clothes that fit versus another means of getting smaller!! Argh!!

Meh, it's not like the clothes would fit for long anyway!"

Tricky, though. Losing weight on a shoestring. I am so thankful for the skills I learned both with a needle and thread, and a sewing machine, because they've saved me a LOT of money. I have enough simple tops and skirts that I've been able to take in down the side seams to stop me feeling like I don't have a stitch to wear!  

It's handy that I made a few of my skirts using an old panelled skirt as the template - it was made up of ten sections that were straight up and down at the top, then swept around to the side, widening out slightly at the bottom, to give a flattering fit-and-flare shape. I have to admit that the ones I made are not, shall we say, as finished as some bought items might have been, but hey, because of their construction I've been able to remove panels to make them a smaller size and sew them back together again, and thus taking them from unwearable back to wearable, so I'm not going to complain about tiny things that no-one except myself will ever notice!   

My infamous shirt collection hasn't fared quite so well, however. Picking apart and resetting sleeves is just a tad over my non-skilled pay grade, and I have had to say goodbye to some favourite shirts after they got just too ridiculously voluminous to wear. Yes, belts are handy in situations like these, and lord knows, I've worn a couple of pin-up style wide elastic belts to death already. Belts are fun, but you know a shirt has to go when you end up looking like an extra from an 80's film: all big shoulder and cinched-in swathes of fabric. Nope. Eighties fashions are best observed on golden-oldie film channels and should never be recreated unless the intention is an ironic one.

Shirts occupy that weird and dangerous no-man's land of clothing for me; they need to be wide enough at the bottom to fit, you know, my bottom, but fitted enough at the top to stop me losing things down the front, like pencils, fruit, and empty pint glasses. The shirts that I had managed to keep wearing for so long had survived to make it through to the other side because they were neither too baggy, too tight, or too reminiscent of early Meg Ryan films. Goldilocks shirts! But even my favourite favourite black, slightly fitted shirt with pin-tucks and gentle ruffles down the front, somewhat similar to a men's dinner suit shirt (which sounds rather naff and reminiscent of every cheesy prom you've ever been to, but I loved it so I did) has had to be retired from active duty. Pensioned off. Consigned to that big clothes rail in the sky. 

Okay, I lie. It's still sitting in my wardrobe because I couldn't bear to just throw it out, or give it away. I really keep it because it was me, that shirt - I wore it constantly. It saw me through some interesting times, interesting couldn't-fit-into-anything-else times, and it'll stay for a while longer for the dual purposes of being a then-and-now size comparison (because there's no better pick-me-up when feeling overwhelmed by what's still to lose than trying on formerly fitting clothing and finding yourself swaddled in excess fabric), and to remind me that a) not everything black is flattering, b) there's a time and a place for pin-tuck ruffles, and c) that time and place should never, ever return.

(At)tempting Weight

"Note to self: these weigh twice as much as the last ones. Stopping distances will vary drastically from previous efforts. Probably best not to proceed without necessary face protection until arms become considerably stronger, if results like the last time want to be avoided..."

It appears that I'm a glutton for punishment.

I'm sure you'll excuse me if I don't let you know if something happens. This time.  

Eye Of The Donkey

"Nic learnt three things tonight whilst Wii boxing with her new wrist weights:

1: she thought she was using her waist/back/whatever muscles before.  She was wrong.

2: stopping distances for a hook are remarkably longer with weights than without.  Remarkably longer.

3: it is not easy to fake box with a nosebleed."

As I've finally managed to get the hang of not thumping my nose, grazing my chin, or throttling myself with the Wii controllers, I decided to up the ante with the purchase of some wrist weights. The thinking behind this was that I'd have more resistance, and therefore it would be a little more like punching a bag, instead of punching thin air.  

You can probably tell from all of this that I'm not a driver, but I suspect there's a distance/speed/likelihood of crashing formula that you have to learn. I'm sure at least there's a warning on the  side of the car?  CAUTION - MAY CAUSE MATHS PROBLEMS.

It's common sense. It weighs more than before, so if nothing else, my muscles won't be used to carrying them around, and therefore get tired faster, which will increase the chances of my punching my left boob with a right hook instead of the imaginary sand-filled bag hanging from my ceiling. But indeed, if properly thought-out, there has to be a stopping distance to exertion to muscle strength formula that might do the job.  

But until someone tells me what it is, I'll be online searching for hockey masks and triple-padded bras.

Season's Greetings

"Stravinsky. Possibly not the best composer to listen to whilst working out on the elliptical trainer.

Dancer that dies at the end of 'The Rite of Spring'? I know how you feel..."

It's not even the speed. I'm keeping quite a steady rhythm that has little to do with what I'm listening to (which would cause some hilarity if I was doing this in public at a gym - feet turning at a steady pace, arms gesticulating wildly to the beat, or emphases in the phrase - but it's ALL to do with the intention.  

It's possibly just as well I was at home because the Augurs of Spring section had me all dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun DUN dun DUN dun dun dun dun dun DUN dun dun DUN dun dun dun DUN dun dun dun dun DUN dun dun and no-one would have stood a chance anywhere in the vicinity of me, my cycle and my flailing appendages.

Harmony Of The Ellipses

"Nic is grateful to the gods/builders/tectonic plates that conspired to make the only area in her place with truly flat floorboards be right in front of her telly.

Because that's the only spot her elliptical cross trainer works properly!

Mwah hah hah hah haaaah!"

I am also grateful that my behemoth of an exercise machine has little wheels built in to the bottom of the front stability bar to enable me to tip it forward and roll it from where it's stored in my bedroom through to that hallowed spot in the living room, or the age-old, cheap and crappy carpets that cover the less-than-flat floor would be in an even worse state of repair. 

Poor flat. The owners really don't care that much about how it looks, as long as what's there lasts a long time, so let's try to ignore the blue brillo-padesque plastic/wire monstrosity that carpets, for want of a better description, the stairs and hall; you don't want to catch your calves going downstairs (or knees, falling upstairs :: cough ::) on that travesty of a floor fabric, because the resulting welts and grazes sting like a mofo.

But I digress.

Yes indeed, that sweet spot where all four corners of my trainer rest just so. Where balance is premium, and no corner has to bear even the tiniest lurch every time the wheel is turned. For you see, a lurch brings with it a tiny hint of a grinding noise. A suspicion of mechanical disapproval. A suggestion that should any horizontal inadequacy continue, Terrible Things Might Happen. 

So, not just to the left, where the floorboard squeaks pitifully when sensing any sort of imbalance. Not just to the right, where there's an inexplicable bump in the flooring. (I've never found enough courage to actually find out what it is; I just avoid it and hope it isn't/wasn't anything that might ooze in the future...) Not set up running parallel to the sofa and sideways to the teevee for there appears to be a lack of wholesome boards at that particular point. They don't squeak there. It's more of a groan, and a slight give that supplies just enough impetus not to linger.

I guess I just want to point out that I didn't simply plonk the thing down in direct view of the screen without trying all other options first. That I did in fact search for a suitably stable support in all corners (or all corners that didn't show an unnatural pliancy of support) of the room, before finally coming to the realisation that, for a short time at least, the Gods of Getting In Shape were smiling down upon me and my efforts to both pedal my pounds away and watch 'Grey's Anatomy'.

I probably need to replenish that cake altar again.

A Thigh Of Belief

"Nic decided, seeing as she has lost a fair amount of lbs, that it was a good idea to start using her cross trainer again; and instead of suffering a measly 5 minutes before falling down in a quivering heap like she used to, she can now manage 30 minutes before quivering heapage is attained.

On the other hand, her thighs are never going to forgive her.

Never ever."

And to add insult to injury, I still had to wheel the monster back to its lair in my bedroom from the living room (where there's more space to use it), where it nestles in the gloom of my makeshift wardrobe.

I'm reminded somewhat of an advert for an egg-shaped toy that was around when I was young, Weebles Wobble But They Don't Fall Down, partly because a friend of mine used to call me Weeble, (Not a mean girl at all, just lacking in empathy a bit at times) but also because I really was wobbling there for a second or sixty, however, I decided that falling down on the couch would probably leave my protesting muscles in a worse state.

I just have to hope that by tomorrow my lower extremities will have absolved me of my rotary sins against them.

edit 21st September 2015:  I come back to this post two years later to say that I've just started up again with my rather decrepit, slightly falling apart, but still just about working cross trainer. After discovering walking workouts on YouTube about seven months after I first started bobbing up and down on the cycle, and worrying that the it was starting to wear out having to put up with my extra poundage (something that seemed within the realms of possibility because if it was used more than two consecutive days it started to clunk a little with each peddle turn) I decided it was time to put it out to pasture. Or, in reality, turned it into a clothes horse.

But talking to a friend today about all the things I do to try and lose weight and get fit and healthy, I remembered my trainer-horse and decided to take it out of retirement. It was unsurprisingly dust-free, being buried under too-big concert dresses as it was, so I just needed to spray a little WD40 in pertinent places to convince it it was all going to be okay (and I love the smell, which is always handy), find my MP3 player, and set up a pile of eighties hits. Oh yes, there's nothing like a stationary cycle down memory lane to get the sweat flowing! A Town Called Malice, Lessons In Love, Atomic, Centerfold, Abracadabra, You Spin Me Round (Like A Record), Take On Me, Temptation, It's A Sin...  

My thighs, needless to say, haven't changed their record, though...

No Pain, No Gain

"Nic has now lost both resistance bands to the rigours of Wiixercise. RIP orange and green bands, you served her well.

(Except for those chinese burns, and that welt when the green decided to split mid-shoulder press and that self-inflicted punch just now from the orange finally breaking...  Actually, good riddance.)"

You know the type I mean, right? The long, flat, stretchy strips of latex, not the long, tubular, stretchy strings of probably latex too that have the added eye-blackening properties of handles on the end. I can imagine the latter would give you a hell of a lot more of a whip-like lashing should it wear out mid-use. Going by past experience I can at least guarantee it would give me a whip-like lashing should it wear out mid-use.

You use the bands much like you use hand weights. There's a slight change of emphasis in how they're held, but they can target the same muscles, plus you have the added resistance between your hands (or feet) that isn't possible to replicate with two separate weights. They're great for strength training, and are less likely that a hand weight to disturb your downstairs neighbours should you lose your grip and let it go. They're more likely to give you red stripe down your cheek or shoulder, but less likely to break your foot. All-in-all they're a handy addition to your workout tool-kit, but I'd always advise the wearing of hockey masks, balaclavas, or Teflon-coated full body armour, especially if the bands are getting a little old. But that might just be me...

Band Of Bothers

"Nic has suffered injuries from exercise before (but includes tripping over the Wii balance board and twisting her foot in this dubious list, so you may have to take its validity with a pinch of salt) but this is the first time she's received a welt on her hand from an exploding resistance band."

I may have mentioned my clumsiness before. It is a Thing. But it's not a Fat Thing, for I can be the most graceful person in the room; I am freakishly aware of how much space I take up, and will correctly gauge the clearance between people/cars/chairs so as to not nudge anything that may complain/set off alarms/scrape across the floor. Actually, my Fat Thing is to not be seen or heard, but that's a topic for a day that's not already filled with gigantic rubber bands rending asunder and creating the havoc only a gigantic rubber band in the hands of the belligerent and bored Gods of Exercise can accomplish.

No, the Fairy Godmothers who came to bless me at my crib were not your usual fairy tale characters bestowing beauty, brains, and other desirable gifts, and it is a running joke (coined, of course, by me) that when the gods were handing out common sense, I was in the other room, queuing for the chocolate machine. But it is possible to be both graceful and clumsy. I am the poster girl, in fact. I spent ten years of my life learning how to hold myself with poise, to move fluidly and elegantly, to control my body, thanks to the wonderful teachings of Miss White and her ballet lessons, and although Osgood Schlatter Disease* reared its ugly head and put a stop to my pliés and pirouettes, and instead helped me pile on the pounds, my ungainly self still kept its muscle memory and elegance of movement. Just super-sized.  

Yet, as much as I can sashay across a room and not bump in to anything, or avoid tripping up over backstage cables, or even balance in the small space between the orchestra and the edge of the stage without falling to an embarrassing, probably crumpled and broken, heap in front of the first row, you can set a glass of water on a solid, non-shoogly table in front of me, and I'll have it over in 30 seconds flat. I suspect we're all given our clumsy quota. I certainly feel I've been given mine, and most of yours, too, because for sure my lifetime allowance of adroitness is either for someone who should have shuffled off this mortal coil aged fifteen, or it has just been divided up between more worthy owners. 

Just to compound the problem, I do seem have a problem with stairs. Flat surfaces seem to be okay, but add even the tiniest chance of that clumsy gene having a say, and I'll fall down one step and break my foot, trip up a step and break a toe, and miss the kerb whilst crossing the road, fall and seriously damage my knee so badly that I now suffer from an unresolved haematoma; where the swelling from the initial injury and bruise has yet to go down. (I've been told it will do so in time, but just now it's rather like have a hot-water bottle strapped to one's leg.)

I can't guarantee being whipped by a shredded resistance band is pure clumsiness, mere bad luck, or a sign I've offended the workout gods, but it's not the first time I've been clobbered by my exercise equipment. Remember the Wii boxing Bloody Nose Debacle of October 2012? Perhaps I should consider an investment in full-body riot armour, just to be on the safe side.

*OSD, originally classed as 'growing pains' affected my father, my brother, and myself in different ways while we were growing up. It stopped me from being able to bear my weight when I bent my knees, it stopped me being able to crouch, kneel, run or dance. By the time the symptoms were becoming less pronounced, the damage had been done. Muscles had shortened, tendons had weakened, weight had been gained. Nowadays when someone is diagnosed with OSD you are prescribed physiotherapy once the initial symptoms have improved, pain killers, exercises. Back in the day we were told we would grow out of it. I'm left with knees that don't bend properly, I can't crouch, and I can only kneel if I'm balancing on my patella, which probably isn't particularly advisable. I'm hopeful that eventually losing weight, plus the addition of concentrated stretches and the general building up of very weak, and underused muscles may bring back some semblance of normal knee joints. Only time will tell.