Define this

I have just spent the last ten minutes feeling up my own leg. I cannot get enough of myself right now and I will tell you why: Pilates or yoga, five times a week, that’s why.

My god, people, the definition. In my calves. My knees. My forearms, for the love of Mike. Even my thighs offer, in some small way, their own form of definition. This morning, as I rolled up into yet another pilates-induced crunch, the sight of my own bicep filled me with glee.

A very nice feeling indeed.

Certainly, the need to blast off rather a lot of fat remains. But when it begins to abate in earnest? Muscles. Muscles, muscles, muscles.

So it’s been…what? Three weeks since I made it a goal to do pilates or yoga every workday morning? I haven’t missed a day since. And that’s been good. But it has meant that my slavish loyalty to the gym every evening has fallen by the wayside.

It is time to bring them back together. Yes, time to preside over the unholy marriage of meditative morning toning exercises with sweaty evening gym machinations.

I know it’s necessary. I know I can do it. But I worry, a little, about getting overwhelmed by it all. Because: I have a full time job. And we’re renovating the house. And I have this novel hanging over me that I’m supposed to rewrite. And there’s the morning toning stuff, which I love. And counting calories, which I am totally getting the hang of. And what if I try to add this other thing and I totally flip my wig?

I guess the answer is so what if I do? So what? So I’ll just get up, dust off and start again in a different way. What’s a little wig-flipping, to the likes of me, champeen wig-flipper from way back? Has there ever been a truly negative, lasting effect to the flipping of the wig? No, now that I think about it, there kind of has not been. There’s been plenty of needless fretting before I do something that I think MIGHT lead to wig-flipping. But no actual stopping-of-the-turning-of-the-world once my wig is up in the air doing somersaults.

So. So so so.

Guess what I’m doing tonight? Me, my sportsbra and the treadmill. Yes, boy.

(Because, I’ll tell you a secret. Lately, I’ve started to think that people who run for fun or exercise or both are not as stupid/insane as I once thought they were. Now that’s just between you and me. Don’t go telling everyone.)