Labour Pains

OK, first and foremost - I am not pregnant! Now that that is out of the way, onto the topic.

Given July is the month of sobriety and attempts to lose the weight that's recently found me, I have decided to up the anti with my workouts.  I realise I could also stop upping my food intake, but my motto has always been 'one change at a time' (Gee, no wonder the weight found me - I was clearly to busy stuffing my face to hide from it!).  

So, in the name of all that is 'upping-the-anti', last week I decided to mix up my workout routine slightly and attend my local gymnasiums I.C.E class. I.C.E stands for "Indoor Cycling Experience", but should actually be an acronym for "Imminent Cardial Infarction Experience (awaits)". 

I loathe spin classes. Correction - I absolutely, unequivocally, irrefutably DISDAIN them. I knew this before I decided to participate in this class and yet somehow, I had lulled myself into a false sense of security thinking that perhaps every other time I've attended spin and hated it, I was either imagining the depth of hatred I felt, or perhaps doing something wrong. (I blame Romy and Michelle's Highschool Reunion for leading me to believe they were an easy class, whose mandatory footwear was a pair of high-heeled pumps fresh from the 90's, teamed with a sequined sports bra).

When Sexy Twin and I attended Boot Camp (aka: Golden Door Health Retreat) in the Hunter Valley in January, we made the same mistake of participating in a spin class only to be utterly tortured by our PT. As it turned out he was training for the Tour de France and using our spin class as his own personal training session! Last weeks I.C.E class turned out to be no exception.

In the midst of a 12 minute straight hill climb I didn't know whether to swear, throw-up, slap the instructor, cry, commence cardial infarction, or F: all of the above.  My glasses fogged up from the sweat and the steam I generated, and my ample derriere perched upon a seat no bigger than a hairbrush, reminded me of it's ampleness the entire ride.  The funny thing was once the class was over the pain all but dissipated and a strange sense of achievement washed over me. 

Later as I whinged to Muscle Man about my bruised posterior, I quipped that to me a spin class is like the early stages of labour.  The minute it begins you are reminded how shockingly bad it is.  You recall with sudden clarity the agony you will feel, and the marathon that's ahead.  You remember that relief only comes with the scream for "MORE DRUGS", or the end of the class. And yet when it's all finished and the experience has passed you by, you wonder how bad it really was...and somehow decide you might even do it all again!

Dry July - Weekend 1 down, 3 to go.

Well, I did it, I survived the first weekend of my month long fling with sobriety.  Despite a few fleeting moments where I thought I might crack, and wondered what on earth I had gotten myself into, I can proudly say I stuck to my guns (read: mineral water) and made it over the first hurdle.  Weekend number 1 of 4.

I can't deny that having a head cold at present may have made the task slightly easier.  However, I also entertained the thought that being sick might be my body's way of enacting revenge for taking away a life-source, wine and therefore, I should return it immediately.  Hand on my heart I swear I didn't though.

I officially put down my 'drinking hand' (Dry July's slogan), on Wednesday the 30th June. I have an event not-to-be-missed on the 31'st July, for which my honorary mother-in-law has purchased me a Golden Ticket (night off sobriety) for a farewell cocktail party she is hosting. I figure I'll be a cheap addition to her soiree with one cocktail almost guaranteed to have me tiddly (and the life of the party) after my month off.  Surely it's like virginity you know, 12 months of abstinence and some would call you a virgin again, by this logic a month off the wine should make me a teenage girl again.

Aside from the amazingly good cause all funds raised go to, the nuts and bolts of the operation is also my desire to lose the weight I have gained since commencing uni.  I weighed myself on Friday, 02nd July and am ashamed, embarrassed and horrified to report that my weight has increased by 7...yes, you read that correctly, 7 kilos!  *insert crying (make that howling) emoticon here*. 

After crying, swearing, kicking, pleading, and bribing the Wii fit scales to check again, only to be repeatedly appalled, I have decided to accept the cruel fate my food choices have led me to, and knuckle down.  So July will not only be the month of sobriety, but also the month of "Get-your-arse-into-gear-and-lose-the-weight month". 

Muscle Man is of course fabulous when it comes to all things Muscle, so he has taken on the challenge of motivating me to put down the chocolate and pick up the weights instead.  So far he needs a little improvement as he has seemingly failed to notice my oral fixation aka: need to eat anything in-sight to detract from the shiny new set of wine glasses Sexy Twin bought me last week just waiting to be christened.  A lovely gesture, or a cruel taunt- you be the judge.

On that note, either the pantry or my bed is calling, so wish me luck as I attempt to bypass one to get to the other ;o)

Alfie xx