Wednesday, 16 July 2014

Getting high in town

Me and my beloved bike basket at 8am in town. 

So, the late 90s were my partying days, (them and the early to mid 2000s) when "getting high in town" meant necking a naggin neat at the bus stop or drink-robbing at various sweaty meat-markets. Yesterday however, saw me getting high in an entirely more responsible way. Exercise.

Feel free to zone out now before the recent exercise convert begins extolling the virtues of sober highs...

Ok. Exercise had up to a couple of months ago been something imposed on me by teachers or well-meaning friends. Something I endured for a payoff. Something I dreaded like a Monday morning. Even my Facebook feed with photos of shrinking waistlines and updates on friend's marathon successes didn't get me fired up.

It's hard to find the space and time when leaving the house usually sees you with a child strapped to your lactating breasts. Try training for the women's mini-marathon while breastfeeding, I thought. Never gonna happen. I assumed Exercise For The Sake Of It would happen when my last child weaned; I'd wake up one day feeling like I really needed to push my body to its limits, and LOVE feeling the burn.

I don't know about you but having children really takes its toll on my body. Between the relaxin coursing through my veins, making me feel like my hip joints are jelly, my nether regions feeling like they could do with their own sling, and the extra baby/cake weight, I wasn't really in a position to get sweaty (vertically at least) for almost two years postpartum each time. Could also be my age/general level of unfitness.

Another factor is that only in the last few months have my kids been happy to let me go. That was a big deal, and something akin to a trust exercise. If we let mama off the leash will she run for the hills and never come back?

I proved my trustworthiness. So I've got my freedom.

So I've signed up for a 4 week course in yoga in the city centre. Early morning classes, designed for commuters/the active types. I've gone from a 10am-3am day to a 6.30am-11.30pm day. This has been on my to-do list for the last few years (to shift my waking hours) and I've finally got the urge to do it.

Yesterday was class 1. I sped into town on my trusty steed (bike), a ridiculous grin on my face, buoyed up by the summer air, the strong coffee and the promise of at least 90 minutes of time for me. A friend signed up for the class too, and I was looking forward to seeing her. In fact when the alarm went off at a time I'm sometimes falling asleep, I almost ignored it. But the thought of telling a friend I'd been too lazy to get up gave me the push I needed, and I'm so glad I did.

I cycled into town along a route I used to walk in to college, and thought about how much has changed in my life since then. Totally high on the endorphins I watched commuters commuting; the businessman with his umbrella and briefcase, the businesswoman on her emerald green bike. The doorman closing up from the night before. The ashen-faced smokers taking a last drag before their shifts begin. I passed an old haunt from my college days, imagined me stumbling drunk out of it in my stilettos and miniskirt. If the old "me" met the current "me" she'd have been shocked at how different my life has turned out. But it's a journey that makes so much sense, I can see how I was leading to this point from day 1.

So I arrived at the studio a little early, pumped from the cycle and dying to get my body moving and feel muscles stretch that haven't been used in years. And the class did not disappoint. Perfect. Absolutely perfect, moved me to tears.

So lazyass mama is now moving her ass. That's my new kind of high.

Nee x

Endorphin-induced idiot pose

No comments:

Post a Comment

A lovely comment makes my day, please share your thoughts! xx