The Schoolgirl Figure
Another thing us housewives do is put a bit of effort into maintaining the schoolgirl figure. There are various means of doing this, pills that you get from clicking on a Facebook ad, eating disorders, diets you find in magazines. My preferred method is to eat sensibly and get regular exercise. I know it sounds crazy, but it seems to be working for me.
Last school holidays we went on the family ski trip. On the second last day, with the sun shining and everyone feeling like they were a pretty fantastic skiier, we took the Moose down a black run. My husband recklessly turned his head on the way down to see how he was doing and took a fairly predictable tumble. I attempted to stop gracefully beside him, but failed. Instead I cartwheeled over the top of him and, to cut a long story short, sprained my ankle. This has cut out quite a large part of my regular exercise, as I still can’t walk very far without it swelling up. All that is left to me is cycle class.
There are three cycle class instructors at my gym. The first is enthusiastic, but uninspiring. I mainly do his class to marvel at the amount he sweats. I feel that they should put a tarpaulin underneath him so they can reconstitute him afterwards. The second is a hyperfit woman in her fifties, all zip and gristle and black eyeliner. I very much enjoy her classes, but the best of all is Dmitri. I did Dmitri’s class today. He’s the kind of short, stocky Mediterranean type that I’d always have a crush on in high school. It’s not that which makes his class the best, in fact I’m not really sure what it is. All I know is that it is in Dmitri’s class that I’ve come closest to vomiting like they do on the Biggest Loser. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned this to the young lady next to me, as she kept shooting me startled looks every time I coughed. There’s a lot of sprinting sitting down and sprinting standing up, and giving it one hundred percent, and it seems to be over fairly quickly and I’m never quite sure that I’m not going to sink quivering to the ground after dismounting. He manages to run the entire class without once saying “woohoo”. The real measure of his class is that when I go out into the carpark, I can’t remember where I’ve parked. And when I do find the car, I attempt to open it with my gym card.