I took on a challenge to run 100km in the month of March for Cystic Fibrosis, not just because CF is a nasty piece of work that needs eradicating from the world, but also because like the rest of the UK I’ve done almost a year in elasticated loungewear.
Pre-Covid, I was reasonably fit but mostly I was active. I was tearing round the supermarket like Dale Winton, or squeezing in a quick errand I really didn’t have time for and barely sitting down all day. Evening would arrive and between running the kids to here there and everywhere, occasionally I’d wash the kitchen floor as an evening treat after a busy day.
Then Covid and I found that gym wear was extremely comfortable to watch Netflix in. My cardio supermarket was no more as I was lucky enough to secure delivery slots most weeks. I had no quick errands, school dashes or even the motivation to do anything. But isn’t food nice? And food and Netflix is a dream team.
It seemed to rain every day so even a quick stroll was a coin flipping ‘heads you go’ activity that we shared, and argued over.
“I’ll make the tea in the morning if you take the dog out,” I’d barter.
Then a daffodil. A sure sign that spring is springing and that soon we’d have to emerge from our houses and even bare flesh.
“Right,” I said to myself, “sort yourself out.”
So I signed up to the aforementioned Cystic Fibrosis challenge.
I have run every day, not far, but with a daily determination that Paula Radcliffe would approve of. I have hydrated myself, nourished myself with a pretty balanced diet that does include carbs, protein, fibre. I don’t think I have over compensated by stuffing myself using the classic I’ve-run-so-can-eat-anything-I-like license.
But I have gained several pounds. WTAF!
I set myself free on Google to find out more, and it turns out that this can be expected. Pleased. Not. Was. I.
But what to do about it?
Check the amount I’m eating, is it enough? – Er yes.
Am I using the license mentioned above? – Don’t think so.
Water? It seems to be the answer to everything doesn’t it? – Yes, I’m as hydrated as a sea urchin in a pub.
So I said to myself – Are you ready to cope with the answer from the biggest question of all? – Yes, what is it?
Try on your skinny jeans
You know the ones; the ones you bought in Zara while starving and after an extreme bout of illness when you were 25.
Oh those guys.
I’m in them, and they do up.
Ok so I’m not going to go out to dinner in them because I’d rupture something if I sat down, and bootleg jeans aren’t really a look I’m working with currently. But, I’m sort of in them for the first time in ages.
So heavier I might be, but that isn’t even permanent. I’ve shocked my muscles into trauma and hoarding, I’m hanging onto that as factual so let me have it please people (link below). I am trimmer, fitter and healthier both mentally and physically. That’s got to be a win, oh and I’ve raised quite a chunk of money for my lifelong affiliated charity www.cysticfibrosis.org.uk
So the moral of this tale that I’m taking away is.
It’s not how much I weigh, its how much I look like I weigh.
Links for further reading: