Today, after a dismal day at work (even though the annoying woman wasn’t in, I still put my noise-cancelling headphones on and listened to Gwar’s Scumdogs of the Universe in order to drown out the world), I met with my personal
torturer trainer for my first “proper” session. I hadn’t been sure I wanted to go through with it, as my feet had been hurting all day and I had a pain in my left side that probably resulted from awkwardly shifting boxes on Monday and Tuesday (not to mention climbing on Monday night), but I went through with it anyway.
The good news is, I’m off to a good start: even though I couldn’t do a single pull-up, I’m surprisingly flexible, I’ve got the form right for everything, and my inner core is balanced and just in need of conditioning. I survived an hour of solid torture, from warming up on the rowing machine (my arms quickly began to hurt, yet somehow I endured) to doing a variety of sit-ups that goes four different ways on each rep, to having my legs bent behind me in a weird kind of physiotherapy, to something called the sideways plank — or as I’ve decided to call it, the horizontal hello-sailor. I’d been worried about the prospect of spending an hour on this, but in the event, the time just flew by… and in a few weeks — as few as four, if I really work hard — I should be fighting fit!
Other advice from my mentor includes eating eggs in the mornings, rather than going back to my short-lived habit of having toast and cereal, because both of them are mainly carbohydrates, whereas one of them plus an egg would mean the protein limits the rate of carbohydrate release, and it doesn’t all just become fat. As a result, I’m going to try hard-boiling eggs at the start of the week and keeping them in the fridge, for my weekday breakfasts. Eggs have been getting a bad press, and apparently they don’t have the “wrong” sort of fat in them after all. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the Daily Fail links them to cancer (again?), but if I eat them in the meantime, it doesn’t count!
There’s a happy postscript to this: I got the bus to the Castle again, and even looked down the street towards Stratford Villas, where I experienced the depths of despair on “the other Twelve-Twelve“, and yet felt no sense of helpless horror; admittedly, that might be because it was still light outside, and I wasn’t standing around in the cold waiting for an estate agent (though it is still annoyingly cold at the moment). In addition, I had beans on toast when I got home, and didn’t have an olfactory-induced flashback to that studio flat!
Perhaps I’m on the upwards curve of the bipolar wossname, but despite a lousy day at work, exercise has helped me feel a bit better, and I’ve overcome (at least temporarily) my tendency to brood on past foolishness. And the lyrical poetry of Oderus Urungus obviously didn’t hurt (I was actually a little disappointed that no-one overheard my music and complained about it!), so I’m going to have to get more Gwar in future…
Oh, and the title of this post refers to… yes, you knew this was coming: