This week has been my get-back-on-the-wagon week. So I’ve filled it with tons of water-drinking (punctuated with one beer on Friday that left me bloated for 24 hours), lots of veggies (punctuated with some fries to accompany the afore-mentioned beer) and some exercise.
I say some exercise because as much as I’d would have liked to have hit the gym 5 times this week, I didn’t for the following reasons:
- I didn’t really want to.
- I had uni on Monday and Tuesday nights so I only got home at 8pm.
- I visited my lovely friend Kate in hospital on Wednesday night.
- I didn’t think it was that smart to go hell for leather in the first week in case I would’t be able to move for weeks afterwards.
excuses, I mean, reasons didn’t stop me from actually exercising though. In the past, they would have. I would have gotten to Thursday and thought, well, this week is a loss, I’ll start again next week and then next week would have been exactly the same. This is why I’m carrying around an extra 15 pounds.
So on Thursday, I went to the gym and had a 45 minute session with my trainer, who left me with very tight quads. On Saturday morning, I walked for 30 minutes to pilates and had an hour pilates class and then walked home. This left me with very tight abs and a body that craved sleep all day.
Today, I’m sore and I’m still tired. But it’s a good tired, or least that’s what I’m telling myself. I’m not going to try do more next week because my obligations are the same and my time is finite. But I’ll get to the gym on Thursday and I’ve already booked into a pilates class on Saturday so my body may not be as much in shock next time.
And despite everything I tell you and all the whinging I do about my sore muscles, I like this feeling. I like feeling as if I’ve done something, as if I’ve shocked my body out of complacency and I’m actually moving forward. Sore muscles are great (but don’t tell The Boy, since I need to keep whinging to someone :))