These feet are made for walkin’, just not far

I’M in the zone for getting fit. A bit late I know after all the years of failed attempts. I’m going to be a slim, fit older woman. Fatty class is going well. I’m down a good bit for now, but I’ve done all this before.

I have three gold cards from when my kids were born all those years ago. Those kids are now thirtysomethings. And after each pregnancy I lost three stone. “Eat up,” they said, “you’re eating for two.” And I took their exhortations to heart. And now I can eat for six. It’s only now that it’s dawning on me that most people don’t line chocolates up on their iPad stand in bed. Most normal people don’t have a stash of biscuits and crisps down the side of the couch. And they most certainly don’t finish other people’s meals in restaurants. I hasten to add it’s just the people at the table with me. I don’t go around to other tables. Yet.

I don’t like exercise. I do Pilates badly. And reluctantly. I play tennis and wait for the ball to land on my racket. So over the last few weeks, I’ve been struggling to change. Going for long walks. Well, longish. Short by other people’s standards but long for someone who is capable of driving to the house around the corner. I really don’t like walking. I tend to get very weary and make little whimpering sounds all the way around. I do not have long legs and I accept that people with long legs will pass me out on a regular basis. But when a woman who appeared to have very short legs went flying past me with her dog the other day, I became very aggrieved and tried to catch up with her.

I got into such a weakness that I had to stop. I thought about ringing for help but I eventually set off again. I’ll be doing marathons next year.