O sweet Jaysus (in my best Irish vernacular – late, on my day off, but I did it! My 10 minute exercise today was the worst thing I have ever had to do. 400 crunches in 10 minutes!
For those not in the know (like myself until today) – a crunch is a supposedly LESS severe sit-up. If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.
I wish to set the scene. I have conveniently taken the day off, but alas the communication of what exercise I had to do still texted it’s way to me in the early hours of the morning – there is always the eliment of surprise. So I spent the whole day adhering to my finest skill – that of procratination. I had just shared a lovely movie with my sprog, and was about to toddle off to bed, when the pangs of guilt overwhelmed me, and I informed him that to do this, I would need some help. (An aside – the movie was called “An Education”, and I also wish to highly recommend it. Brilliant!)
So I pounded up to his room, where I boldly statedthat there was no ways I could do this without him steadying me by standing on my feet. His only worry was that the exhertion would cause me to let off stagnant winds, and he would literally be on the receiving end. I reminded him that I gave birth to him, and all else after that is his God given gratitude and sense of duty!
Then we started – to inspire me to this major feat in the late hours of this well procrastinated day, he conjured up the melodics of Kate Bush and her Wuthering Heights, one of my favourtie songs (Another aside – I do not like the book however, and blame every modern day soap opera on countless people defining romance and drama on said piece of “classic” literature – Heathcliff indeed. And yes, I heard some of you calling me a Phillistine, but I am now also exercising my freedom of speech).
As the timer chimed 10 minutes I huffed into the final strains of the tenth repitition of my 40 at a time crunches, with him holding my hands for “assistance” might I add, but I did it. Four farts later and we were home dry!
We wish to now copyright and trademark this new bonding exercise and write about it in parenting journals. It has to be done accompanied in the final stretches by “Jumping Around” by the aptly named “House of Pain”, and the instructor donning his Springbok Cap whilst counting down, all the time looming over you with his exagerrated metabolism (NOT my side of the family). I wish to also put on record that having not done ballet for 30 years, my legs are still jellyfied from yesterday’s Pliés – so add severe abdominal pain to that equation, and it is no wonder I took tomorrow off as well!
But I did it.