...And then it was time to call in the big dogs.

I have decided, though secretly I have known it for quite some time, that I am awful at exercise.

I cannot pretend to be one of those people who love to exercise. It’s the first thing they think of the in the morning, and when they eat they are far more concerned with how they will burn it off.

As you are all aware (from previous blogs, which weren’t about shoes!) I have been running. Or at least attempting to run frequently and to power through the pain and stitches that I suffer after about a mile sometimes even less. On one occasion I got cramp tying my shoes laces.

I do not want to be long distance runner, I just want to be fitter. I don’t care if I can run a marathon (would be nice, but ridiculously unachievable at the moment)  - I would just like to fit enough so that I that my chest doesn’t explode and so I don’t look like I’ve been swimming when I get back.

Is that too much to ask?

The problem with being a self-motivated home-exerciser is that somehow there is always a reason not to go. “Its not sunny enough”, “its too sunny”, “its raining”, “it’s just been raining so I might fall over”… or my favourite and most well-used, “I can’t be bothered”

So it was time to call in the big dogs.

I have recruited the help of happy and enthusiastic exercisers – but who turn on you in an instant if you are rubbish. The bulldogs of fitness.

Yes, I have joined exercise classes with the Mr and Mrs Motivators of this world.

… And Miss USA and Miss Hendo come too.

It seemed the next logical (and only) step. I ignore myself when I tell myself to keep running to the next lamp post, but when there’s some one yelling at me to “…grape vine to the left, squat, squat, grape vine to the right, and squat. Squat lower ladies…” then I feel like I have to.

If I don’t she might single me out as the weak and feeble one, and make me run laps round the studio. And the nightmares of gym lessons at school return – Always the aspiring athlete!

So last night it was the turn of the aerobics class. And no – it was nothing like an Eric Prydz video.

 There was a lot more sweat and less flesh on show.

The problem with the exercise studios (apart from the squeaky floorboards, lack of ventilation and the wall length mirror), is that they have clocks. So for the unfit people in the room, watching the time move slowly is torture, more torturous than squats and crunches and looking at your glowing red and soggy reflection.

I try and kid myself that I am one of those fitness goddesses … then I catch myself in the mirror. Oh dear god!

I realised how totally uncoordinated I am since finishing dance lessons. My ability to watch and copy has disappeared. My feet go one way, I go the other, I’m four steps behind every one else and just as I get the hang of a routine, it changes. How the women at the front remain perfectly in time, without breaking a sweat or going red in the face is a miracle. If someone was to look at the class, they would see all the perfect people at the front, with their perfect moves, and then it falls apart the nearer to the back you get.

By the end of the class, I was at the back with the geriatrics.  And at least they were keeping time.

Stretching after these classes is always such a great feeling. It makes all the pain and aching so much better. And it’s a great chance to breathe. Something which I am convinced that I forget to do in the class.

So we finish up the class looking like we’ve been swimming and a grab a yoga mat. As soon as I lay on it I could feel the full body imprint being transferred. Mmm, yum!

And then Miss USA and I got the uncontrollable giggles in a room full of silent people and heavy breathing people, everyone concentrating on pulling the muscles out. It’s hard to pull out a stretch when every part of you is dripping. Sweaty skin is not very good for holding on to. How we were meant to lie on our backs with one leg in the air and pull it gently towards us when our hands were just sliding down our shins, I will never know. But no one else seemed to struggle. Except Miss Hendo, who rather than sweaty shins, had clammy hands. No grip there either apparently.

Anyway, I drank 2 litres of squash and had the remnants of the days make up dripping down my face. In my post exercise delirium, just as the endorphins kicked in – I agreed to go again next week. And some how managed to sign myself up for legs bums and tums on Thursday.

N.B I

To my disgust, I managed to spend £380 yesterday without even being present. Brian went to the garage. Even less money for coffee and shoes this month, especially as my insurance is now the same as teenage boy’s. Very unimpressed

N.B II

Yesterday, Gatwick air traffic control centre was struck by lightning, causing ridiculous train delays. Yes that’s right, the air traffic control centre was affected…And I thought “leaves on the line” was a bad excuse. Thank you Carrie for letting the world know that our train network doesn’t function in thunderstorms.