Way, wayyy back in January, I made a list of resolutions for the year ahead. Whilst I’m doing okay with some of them, others are being forgotten about and neglected a bit (a lot). One of these resolutions was to start lifting weights again.
Well. It’s only taken me half a bloody year, but guess who finally made it back to the gym.
After spending the last week on holiday with my boyfriend, promising myself I’d get fit in between mouthfuls of ice cream, I thought it was time to take myself at my word – no more bullshit excuses, Sophie, just crack on with it.
I’m not going to lie, I’ve been feeling pretty miserable about my body over the last couple of months. Part of this is because, let’s face it, I’ll never be 100% comfortable with how I look. As my idol, Bridget Jones, says: “yes, I will always be a little bit fat.”
Nope, I’ve been feeling down because I’m so frustrated that everything I worked for has been ruined. This time last year, I’d worked so hard to look the way I did; and whilst yes, since then, my mental health might’ve improved a whole heap, my physical fitness has gone to pot. I’ve sabotaged myself and now I have to start from scratch, which is probably why I’ve been putting off gym visits for so long. I’m disappointed, and that’s made my motivation sink.
But today, oh today dear reader, I did it. Kit packed, hair bobble round my wrist, there was no way I was letting myself walk home without making a pitstop at the gym first.
It was quite scary, actually. Having not set foot in a gym for just under a year, I was a bit self-conscious, worried I was going to make a tit of myself (more than I usually do, anyway). It was like I’d rewound to first year, when Sam used to coax me in under the pretence it’d only be for five minutes (I’d say she’s cruel to be kind, but she’s never cruel, that girl).
Once I got into the swing of things, however, I was actually alright. In fact, I was better than alright, because those craaaazy endorphins had me giddy as a kipper. I was elated, and proper chuffed with myself.
Obviously, the weight I’ve put on over the last few months isn’t going to magically fly off as soon as I put my toe on a treadmill, but I feel so much better for it already. It’s gonna be hard graft getting my fitness back up again, but I’ll give it a bloody good go.
So yeah. I’m not sure whether that little anecdote will interest any of you, but there you are. Although I’m walking like Bambi now, I’m proud of myself and wanted you lovely lot to know.
Even if I did pick the poshest gym in Liverpool to wear an ‘I <3 Amsterdam’ t-shirt to.
Thanks for reading,