Anyone who knows me is aware that exercise is not my forte. In the past, people have wrongly assumed this is because I am not competitive. This is very, very wrong. I am extremely competitive, as anyone who has had the misfortune to challenge me to Scrabble, Monopoly or I Spy can attest to.
This is actually the reason I hate any type of sport; I am so competitive that I cannot bear to do it because I know I will lose and that is simply not something I am willing to entertain.
Some of my ineptitude at sport is not entirely my fault – or rather is the fault of my physiology rather than just my laziness. Hypermobility means it can be enough of an effort to remain standing up
moreso after a few drinks that it is unlikely that I would ever be brilliant at running. Also joints can randomly start causing pain – knees and wrists being the worst, plus that pesky Morton’s neuroma mean it’s generally easier to stay indoors and watch Teen Mom. (I don’t actually do this. I do.)
But, enough is enough. That’s a euphemism for “none of my clothes fit anymore and I get out of breath running a bath”. Last week I joined a local exercise class that provided childcare for YoungestGirl whilst I got myself fit. Well, that was the theory anyway. Whilst other people’s babies gurgled and played, mine screamed if I went more than four steps away from her. Resigning myself to having to do the class with her sitting at my feet, she then insisted I carried her whilst doing reps, like the world’s noisiest, most irritating kettle bell.
Last week, I forgot to bring water. As previously mentioned, any recent exercise has been entirely accidental, so it didn’t occur to me I was likely to need water. Last week I styled it out and pretended that I was so hardcore that I didn’t even need water. In reality, I was so dehydrated and exhausted, my vision was clouded and I could no longer see properly. But I think I brazened it out successfully.
This week I remembered before I left the house that I would need to bring a drink. Hurrah! Unfortunately, not being of the sport-doing type, I completely failed to plan ahead to the actual drinks receptacle I would use.
Reader, these were my choices of drink vessels. A pink sippy cup, a Fruit Shoot or a bottle of Aldi’s mulled wine (full – and tempting).
At 10.25 this morning, if you looked very carefully, whilst feeding YoungestGirl bribery rice cakes to keep her quiet with my left hand, the sharp-eyed may have caught me surreptitiously, half-hidden by my changing bag, sweatily necking a Fruit Shoot.