Fighting The Flab: Back on the diet
11th February 2014
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I’m back on the diet. It needed to happen, reader. Not only because I spent the best part of Christmas having a love affair with a box of Quality Street, but also because I’ve realised just how immobile I have become.
I’m 21 and although relatively healthy, I don’t exercise. In fact, until last year, I had never set foot in a gym before. I’ve never seen a rowing machine and thought a cross trainer was something Madonna used to keep her spoilt children under control. I’d laugh in your face if you suggested going for a run, let alone weight lift. But it had to stop. I couldn’t go on eating pancakes without feeling guilty. So I changed it all. I wandered into the gym last October, bewildered at what I saw; it was something from Spartacus, a Roman training arena. I would conjure up images of my sad routine of eating toast and burgers, whilst seeing personal trainers’ glug protein shakes and flex their muscles. So, here I am! (The person above is not me.)
I’m determined to put it right; all the years of looking, at best, a scrawny geek, were going to be behind me. By June I aim to look just like them (the Personal Trainers- who I add, get shouty when you give up after three reps). Here is my daily diary from the past week: Monday 3rd February I arrive at the gym, in Cannock, exhausted and fatigued from a 10 hour shift at work. My trainer, Tom, says that each week we’ll aim to complete a whole hour EACH of arms & abs, legs & abs and back & abs. This, he claims, will not only aid my poor posture (like a Neanderthal, I am), but tone the areas I most need. We head for the cross trainer, the treadmill, some weird torture device that forces you to pull a weighted rope, and finally, the dreaded rowing machine. We do arms, mainly, and I feel instantly sick knowing I can barely lift a weight without a weight even attached. After I nearly faint, we call it a day. The good news is, however, I can go home and scoff my dinner! Wrong. 100g brown rice and chicken is my life now. Even Kate Moss would have scoffed at it. Still, I eat it, albeit tearily. Tuesday 4th February
I’m 21 and although relatively healthy, I don’t exercise. In fact, until last year, I had never set foot in a gym before. I’ve never seen a rowing machine and thought a cross trainer was something Madonna used to keep her spoilt children under control. I’d laugh in your face if you suggested going for a run, let alone weight lift. But it had to stop. I couldn’t go on eating pancakes without feeling guilty. So I changed it all. I wandered into the gym last October, bewildered at what I saw; it was something from Spartacus, a Roman training arena. I would conjure up images of my sad routine of eating toast and burgers, whilst seeing personal trainers’ glug protein shakes and flex their muscles. So, here I am! (The person above is not me.) I’m determined to put it right; all the years of looking, at best, a scrawny geek, were going to be behind me. By June I aim to look just like them (the Personal Trainers- who I add, get shouty when you give up after three reps). Here is my daily diary from the past week: Monday 3rd February I arrive at the gym, in Cannock, exhausted and fatigued from a 10 hour shift at work. My trainer, Tom, says that each week we’ll aim to complete a whole hour EACH of arms & abs, legs & abs and back & abs. This, he claims, will not only aid my poor posture (like a Neanderthal, I am), but tone the areas I most need. We head for the cross trainer, the treadmill, some weird torture device that forces you to pull a weighted rope, and finally, the dreaded rowing machine. We do arms, mainly, and I feel instantly sick knowing I can barely lift a weight without a weight even attached. After I nearly faint, we call it a day. The good news is, however, I can go home and scoff my dinner! Wrong. 100g brown rice and chicken is my life now. Even Kate Moss would have scoffed at it. Still, I eat it, albeit tearily. Tuesday 4th February
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