I’m beginning to feel like a sporty person again. Quite a sore sporty person right now, but sporty nevertheless. Once again, all down to the kindness of strangers. Well, they used to be strangers, but one is now a friend and one is now MY TRAINER!!! Yes, yippee-kay-yay, I got myself a trainer. More later.
Last Saturday, the last interminable day before my better half (much, much better half) and Super Nanny came home, I managed to get the kids to school just in time for Sports Day. They’d had something to eat (not necessarily something healthy) and they were dressed (not necessarily in the right clothes. And their teeth were brushed – as far as I was concerned, we’d won Sports Day already. It took my leaving my phone at home and not being able to send the promised pics to my BH, asking a friend to send some and her eagle eyes spotting that they were wearing the wrong shoes for me to realise the standards were a bit higher than the ones I had been setting. Set the bar low, and you cannot possibly fail, is what I say. So how did I come to register for the darned 94.7? The usual Jen-stupidity. If I think I can do it, I can do it. Takes a bit more than that, as I am discovering.
Anyway, there I was moaning at Sports Day to another school mom/friend about how tough ,my life was, how single-parenting sucked, moan-moan-moan, and she offered to take the terrorists my kids for the afternoon so I could go for a cycle. Thank you, Tamara! I had an awesome 20 kay cycle in 29 degree heat, and my world was once again infused with a rosy sense of well-being. Down Sylvia Pass was a thrill; up it was a long slog, mainly walking. It seems I can’t drag myself up that damned hill without someone stopping to ask me if I’m ok. This time it was a runner (who runs in 29 degree heat? Someone even dumber than me, clearly) who laughed and then told me I could do it. Thanks to Tamara and Bernd, my kids were entertained, fed and bathed, and I got some training in. Yes, training. I’m going around telling people I’m “in training”, like a seriously sporty person.
On Sunday, all the important people in my life came back (thank you thank you thank you) and I got another session in at the gym. The gym is becoming my new favourite place again. The inane music, the bright airy space, the weird womb-coloured walls, the water bottle filler that works like magic, the smell of chlorine, and whoo-hoo, my new TRAINER. There’s a reason I keep referring to him in capital letters- he’s a capital letters kind of a guy. See:
Of course, he’s a lean, mean exercise machine. He’s a personal trainer. Show me a fat trainer and I’m out of the door. I want to look at muscles and be inspired, people. Every time he shows me a new move, he looks just like he’s in an advertisement for a new, fancy, bright, airy gym that smells of chlorine. Or deodorant that makes people swoon at your feet. He makes every exercise look easy and cool… and then I copy him and trip over my laces or stand on my own foot. Who does that? That’s right, Jen-“I’m-in-training”-Geel.
His name is SIBO and he is ENTHUSIASTIC. He thinks we can do this. Cue big smile. After the first session, I couldn’t walk without pain until the second session, by which time it was time to be tortured again. THIS GUY is going to help me get through that race, and raise money for childhood cancer research. He’s taking it personally and I love that.
