yummy mummys and me

I’ve been thinking about those lycra-clad stay-at-home Mums.  You know the ones who drop off their children at school at 9am wearing black lycra leggings?  The ones who are still wearing said shiny leggings and itty-bitty stretchy tops at 3.30pm?  What I’m wondering is whether they spent the whole day waving their twiglet arms and legs around a la Tracy Anderson and if this explains their attire.  Gwyneth Paltrow’s trainer recommends 90 minutes of exercise a day. Half of this is spent saturday-night-fevering around your lounge and the other half wafting little pink dumbells around and repeatedly cocking your leg like a dog.

The reason this has been bothering my brain cells is that I’m trying to choose an exercise regime.  After failing to lose any weight last week (still slightly aggrieved but mostly grateful to be fasting only twice this week) I’m facing up to the need to MOVE to burn some extra calories. My fingers racing across the keyboard are just not cranking up my metabolism sufficiently.  But what to do?

I have various idealised images of myself as a devout exerciser:  Rising majestically at 5am to join a cycle peloton scaling local hillsides; Slipping into a swimming pool after work and smoothly carving out a couple of kilometers;  Joining a beachside yoga classs where I contort my supple limbs while coaxing my ailing chakras in action.  Needless to say, all these versions of me also drop my daughter at school in lycra trying not to look too smug.

In reality, sadly and inevitably, I don’t like exercising.  Nor do I like getting up early, wearing my swimmers in public or even know where my chakras are.  But if I’m going to shift this weight – and I am – then I have to move.  Regularly and vigorously.  Again, what to do?

I’m drawn to the hyper-feminised Tracy Anderson method.  Truth be known, I even bought the DVDs and tried grapevining around the lounge before work.  But I hated it.  And I don’t have that sort of time.  Well, not strictly true.  I just don’t want to devote that sort of time to exercise.  So many other more pleasurable things to do.  Like whitening the grouting in the shower.  I also don’t like her assertion that we all want ‘teeny-tiny dancer’s bodies’.  It certainly looks good on her and Gwynnie but I quite like my curves.  I’ve got broad shoulders, child-bearing hips and big boobs and I’m never going to look like that no matter what size I end up.  Why spend 90 minutes a day on a losing bet?

I’ve been googling and thinking over the past few days about whether there’s an exercise routine I can maintain.  I may have found a solution.  Something to try anyway.  High intensity interval training (HIIT).  It seems that HIIT provides calorie burning and fat liquidating in much shorter periods of time.  Delightfully shorter periods of time.

The recommendations I’ve come across propose training intervals of 30 seconds of intense cardio followed by 30 seconds of moderate activity (or even none apart from gasping like a fish out of water)  repeated for 15 minutes.  No more than 20.  These intervals can be purely cardio, such as running, cycling, or skipping.  Or they can be strengthening moves, such as sit-ups, squats and press-ups, performed at speed followed by rest.  There are some pretty impressive examples on youtube, such as this one http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfOSoIkrM38, if you’re interested.

Its proponents say that HIIT creates a fitter heart and stronger muscles along with a leaner frame.  All in 20 minutes a day.  The 70 minutes I save by throwing my Tracy Anderson DVDs in the bin I can use to properly accessorise my lycra outfits for the school run.  Or perhaps add a cape and save the world.

I’m going to give it a go tomorrow.  I loathe gyms more than exercise itself, so I’ll be doing this at home.   I’ve got kettlebells, a skipping rope, stairs and a mat which should be enough to get started.  Apparently it’s possible to find interval training timers for phones and laptops so I’ll be sorting that out tonight. All set. Except for the lousy attitude but I fear that’s here to stay.

If I survive, I’ll blog about the horror later in the week.  If I don’t, you’ll know that Tracy Anderson was right. After all I don’t believe a grapevine ever took a life.