Monday, 26 August 2013

11 Weeks.

11 weeks is all I have until Vogue. 11 weeks of getting my butt kicked.

This is the tale of week one.

Monday afternoon was going to be my first personal trainer session with Zack, and Sunday night felt like the night before an exam when you know you have underprepared, really underprepared - like 23 years of under preparation. Monday morning was equally as agonising as I avoided the scales like I plague. The recognition that weighing myself alone was going to be SO much better than with an audience forced me to tip toe to the bathroom and endure my Bridget Jones moment. Stepping on the scales mild heart attack ensued, whereby I forcefully removed any kind of jewellery I had one, believing two solid silver bracelets and a pair of earrings would shove the dial down a few stones. It obviously made no impact whatsoever. We are now at that point in the exam where you are queued up with your peers waiting to go in and sit your maths papers when you realise you don't have a're quite fundamentally fucked. Fair to say breakfast that morning comprised of lashings of air, sprinkled with some kitchen dust and a big fat dollop of full fat H2O. Lunch was of a similar variation.

2pm came all too quickly... show time. Having promised not to look at where I had written my weight until he had left the house and I couldn't hear the cackles I hesitantly made my way into the gym.

The session began with a 5 minute warm up on the bike, I smugly thought 'hey, I think I might actually be able to do this.' That little thought was imminently squashed. Next came the cross trainer at levels I didn't know existed and kettle bell exercises which I thought were going to break my back along with my spirit. According to Zack being sick was normal so when I resisted the urge to spew I was extra pleased with myself...crushed it. Finally my hour was up...THANK GOD. Lying on the floor attempting to stretch out my muscles, I realised I looked like this...


And although I say Fat Amy/Patricia is my idol these days I'm aiming more for this... 

I realise Candice may have a few things over me like being a VS model, admired and oogled by millions, and the fact that she looks this good after giving birth but now that I've kicked the carbs who knows what miracles could happen. 

So after a little mermaid dancing on the floor  I then tried to get up - this was a massive struggle. My legs felt like jelly, my back felt like it was carry a house on it and my stomach didn't feel much changed at all  BUT I felt good. It was a good pain. That was until I attempted to go to sleep that night and could barely move, my hot water bottle was taking away no pain and I wanted to punch Zack in the face for making me miss sleep as whatever way I turned I was in agony. Tuesday was a complete and utter write off, I could barely walk and every time I sat down there was no way I was getting back up again...including the toilet.  Wednesday was much the same but a whole lot worse. 

Then came Thursday (my next session) and I thought nothing can be as bad as Monday, if I survived that I will be OK. No, no, no, no. Monday was a walk in the park in comparison to Thursday even though I had warned him I needed to be able to walk as I was going to a wedding the next day (I think he made it his mission to make my hobble). After the session there was now no way I was going to be slutdropping at the reception, for if I dared drop I most certainly wasn't getting back up. 

However, hats off to Zack kicking my ass because after week one I have managed to lose 6lbs (and this was with 1 or 2 vodkas at the wedding...3 max, sorry Zack.) 

I survived week one. Week 2 here we go. 

Fatty BB xxx 

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