I am completely wracked with guilt tonight - the guilt you have when it's been a day of milk tart and carrot cake, and you turn down your one chance at redemption. Yes, I skipped my exercise class.
The thing is, I find it really difficult to dredge up enthusiasm for my special pregnancy classes. I'm always surprised that I actually enjoy exercise. I'm not the kind of person that's built for it: my head turns into a giant red spongy mass after 20 minutes of exertion and actually swells, often one and a half times its size, making working out something that's best left as a solitary - ahem - exercise. Nor am I very coordinated. To say that I am unathletic is to say that the female javelin throwers at the Olympics were meaty. That's probably why I was always the very last girl chosen for PT teams at school. If it was a choice between me and the girl who had BO, one eye and webbed feet, she would have gone first (I justify this by thinking she would have been really good in the swimming relays).
Nonetheless, I truly do love exercising. I love that whole feeling of pushing yourself and feeling yourself become stronger and fitter, until it feels like you can do absolutely anything, and people look at you admiringly in the Pick n Pay parking lot as you effortlessly sling 10kg bags of dog food over your shoulder.
This is not the feeling I get in my pregnancy exercise classes. One of the reasons for this is because I look so hideously undignified. The puce, sweaty face which is my usual exercise hallmark would be a dream compared to the spectacle I have seen in the class mirrors: If Picasso had had a round period, it would have been inspired by me. There I sit, my giant round belly as large as the giant round exercise ball on which I am precariously perched, like an obese fairy balancing on a misformed toadstool. Then comes my round bosom, and on top of that, my head - also round. I am like a series of circles, a perfect snowman shape. Of course, in comparison to my other round bits, my head looks tiny. And a bit crazy, since the efforts of trying to keep up with the instructors have me bobbing and nodding madly, like one of those dogs on a windscreen.
Speaking of instructors - wow. I often wonder who on earth would give up their precious time, after a strenuous work day, to encourage pregnant women to heave their hefty bodies from side to side. I can't come up with a definite answer but I will say this for them: they are each, in their own way, particularly quirky. Take my favourite one, for example: I like her because she is especially enthusiastic, energetic and loves what she does. Unfortunately, I think she takes this passion too far. The woman has starved and exercised to the point where her limbs look like pieces of linguini, which she tosses about with such emphaticness during the workout it looks as if they are hideous spiders which she is trying to shake off her body. Then there is the one who, in her excited encouragement, takes on the exact look of a rabid Pekingnese. I always feel nervous when she approaches me in case one of her eyes pops off into my lap. Oh, and not forgetting the one who clearly forgets herself and, mesmerised by the awful club music (Katy Perry with her screechy voice which evokes inside me the same feeling as a scratchy hangnail; Rihanna whispering saucily about how she loves the smell of sex - gag - and old Justin Timberlake hits), gets the 'club face'. Yup, you know the one: eyes sexily at half mast, mouth pouting - the look which signals that a move to pull up your shirt and reveal what you, six whiskies down, believe to be your toned six pack, is but seconds away.
Odd though these ladies may look, there's no denying that they are all a damn sight more attractive than us, their slowly stomping students. I don't think any pregnant woman looks especially good from the back: the word 'blockish' comes to mind. Now, picture a room full of these blockish people, all seated on their exercise balls, marching in time to the music as their ponytails sway with that focus that seems to come over people the minute they put on a pair of Nikes. As we roll ourselves forward and back, I am reminded of a Lego army advancing forth, not on steeds, but on bubblegum balls.
I truly admire the mobility of the other ladies, however. I myself have reached an awkward stage where, if I try to do anything like a push up or the plank, my stomach drags on the floor. The feeling is quite revolting, kind of like dead man's finger amplified exponentially. I must look like a snake that's swallowed two ostrich eggs. The worst is when the instructors make us sit on the floor to stretch. Do you know how cruel it is to make a pregnant woman get up from a cross-legged position? The other day I was left flailing around for minutes, trying desperately to find my knees so that I could hoist myself on to them. Since there was no one to help me but other pregnant women, I got plenty of sympathetic smiles, but no assistance.
Hmm - come to think of it, maybe it's not such a bad thing I missed tonight's class. May as well take comfort in another piece of cake.
The thing is, I find it really difficult to dredge up enthusiasm for my special pregnancy classes. I'm always surprised that I actually enjoy exercise. I'm not the kind of person that's built for it: my head turns into a giant red spongy mass after 20 minutes of exertion and actually swells, often one and a half times its size, making working out something that's best left as a solitary - ahem - exercise. Nor am I very coordinated. To say that I am unathletic is to say that the female javelin throwers at the Olympics were meaty. That's probably why I was always the very last girl chosen for PT teams at school. If it was a choice between me and the girl who had BO, one eye and webbed feet, she would have gone first (I justify this by thinking she would have been really good in the swimming relays).
Nonetheless, I truly do love exercising. I love that whole feeling of pushing yourself and feeling yourself become stronger and fitter, until it feels like you can do absolutely anything, and people look at you admiringly in the Pick n Pay parking lot as you effortlessly sling 10kg bags of dog food over your shoulder.
This is not the feeling I get in my pregnancy exercise classes. One of the reasons for this is because I look so hideously undignified. The puce, sweaty face which is my usual exercise hallmark would be a dream compared to the spectacle I have seen in the class mirrors: If Picasso had had a round period, it would have been inspired by me. There I sit, my giant round belly as large as the giant round exercise ball on which I am precariously perched, like an obese fairy balancing on a misformed toadstool. Then comes my round bosom, and on top of that, my head - also round. I am like a series of circles, a perfect snowman shape. Of course, in comparison to my other round bits, my head looks tiny. And a bit crazy, since the efforts of trying to keep up with the instructors have me bobbing and nodding madly, like one of those dogs on a windscreen.
Speaking of instructors - wow. I often wonder who on earth would give up their precious time, after a strenuous work day, to encourage pregnant women to heave their hefty bodies from side to side. I can't come up with a definite answer but I will say this for them: they are each, in their own way, particularly quirky. Take my favourite one, for example: I like her because she is especially enthusiastic, energetic and loves what she does. Unfortunately, I think she takes this passion too far. The woman has starved and exercised to the point where her limbs look like pieces of linguini, which she tosses about with such emphaticness during the workout it looks as if they are hideous spiders which she is trying to shake off her body. Then there is the one who, in her excited encouragement, takes on the exact look of a rabid Pekingnese. I always feel nervous when she approaches me in case one of her eyes pops off into my lap. Oh, and not forgetting the one who clearly forgets herself and, mesmerised by the awful club music (Katy Perry with her screechy voice which evokes inside me the same feeling as a scratchy hangnail; Rihanna whispering saucily about how she loves the smell of sex - gag - and old Justin Timberlake hits), gets the 'club face'. Yup, you know the one: eyes sexily at half mast, mouth pouting - the look which signals that a move to pull up your shirt and reveal what you, six whiskies down, believe to be your toned six pack, is but seconds away.
Odd though these ladies may look, there's no denying that they are all a damn sight more attractive than us, their slowly stomping students. I don't think any pregnant woman looks especially good from the back: the word 'blockish' comes to mind. Now, picture a room full of these blockish people, all seated on their exercise balls, marching in time to the music as their ponytails sway with that focus that seems to come over people the minute they put on a pair of Nikes. As we roll ourselves forward and back, I am reminded of a Lego army advancing forth, not on steeds, but on bubblegum balls.
I truly admire the mobility of the other ladies, however. I myself have reached an awkward stage where, if I try to do anything like a push up or the plank, my stomach drags on the floor. The feeling is quite revolting, kind of like dead man's finger amplified exponentially. I must look like a snake that's swallowed two ostrich eggs. The worst is when the instructors make us sit on the floor to stretch. Do you know how cruel it is to make a pregnant woman get up from a cross-legged position? The other day I was left flailing around for minutes, trying desperately to find my knees so that I could hoist myself on to them. Since there was no one to help me but other pregnant women, I got plenty of sympathetic smiles, but no assistance.
Hmm - come to think of it, maybe it's not such a bad thing I missed tonight's class. May as well take comfort in another piece of cake.
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