At the start of the week, I looked in the mirror and realised my total lack of exercise is starting to play havoc with my waistline. Too many comfort calories and that muffin top is threatening to develop into a brioche. And that, if left unchecked, could very well morph into a farmer’s loaf.
Time to get up and moving, I told myself. On Monday I wheeled out my bike, brushed off the cobwebs and went out for a very gentle cycle. All good so far; I was still standing, all limbs working and one whole biscuit’s worth of calories burned off.
So the next day I woke up brimming with good intentions. And then made the fatal mistake of thinking I could do more than I can. Silly me, why do I keep letting my wishful thinking hijack my common sense.
I did the school run by foot and decided to live dangerously: I took the long way home. I’m only talking about a few extra roads and a quick detour via the park, but oh boy, what a difference an extra half an hour can make.
By the time I’d carried a happy, wet pooch through the house, I was fit for absolutely nothing. Yawning, exhausted and zonked out on the sofa. I never learn, as my husband was quick to remind me. ‘I only suggested you walk to school and then come straight home’, he pointed out, ‘not traipse around the entire village’.
Clearly, it was a moment of pure madness and one I’ve paid the price for all week. Argh. It makes me want to jump up and down and scream that I can’t do something as basic as walk the dog without knocking my body out. All that effort to work off one sodding biscuit on Monday and I’ve probably eaten an entire packet since.