mutteringhousewife

What does the last of the housewives do?

Tag: exercise

Swimming

I’m not surprised the Australian swim team were taking drugs, swimming laps is very very tedious.

I have a lot of reasons not to swim for exercise. My hairdresser doesn’t approve, for a start. He can tell if I’ve swum in the previous week, he’s more a hair whisperer than hair dresser, and has given me a whole system for protecting my hair against the evils of swimming pools. I have trouble not thinking about all those bodies in the water, all the oozings and flamingos goddamn you auto correct, not flamingos, flakings. It’s all very erky. Also I have a gym membership, so it hurts a little to scoop six dollars fifty out of the bottom of my handbag for non gym exercise.

But I’m STILL not allowed to walk for exercise, and running is so far out of the question that my sport doctor just gives a hollow laugh when I mention it. I like my pump classes and cycle classes, but they’re on at nine thirty and this morning I was child free at seven forty five ante meridian with a well equipped indoor Olympic pool right around the corner. It was like fate.

Because it’s so very tedious I break it up into five lap chunks. A freestyle, a backstroke, a freestyle, a backstroke and then a reward lap of breaststroke. I don’t know how anyone does all freestyle, it’s bad enough my way. And because it takes a bit of psyching up on my part to not only get to the pool, but to get in as well, I like to spend a bit of time there. I do thirty laps. I spend a lot of that time pondering the peculiarities of lap swimmers.

I don’t get flippers at all. If you’re swimming for exercise, why do you need flippers? Why why why? Probably half the swimmers today were using them, and not for stroke correction or anything, just to go a bit faster. It’s like putting a motor on your bicycle, fine if you’re trying to get somewhere but useless for exercise purpose. I’ll never get up the courage to ask someone, so if you know, tell me.
Then there’s the age old conundrum of the slow, medium and fast lanes. This pool has suggested lap times for each lane. I don’t know about you, but my vision is just good enough to kind of work out vaguely what time it is from the clock on the wall, I have no way of knowing how fast I swim a lap. I think to be in the fast lane you need to be wearing a swimming cap, but apart from that it would seem that all bets are off. I go in the medium lane, if you’re interested.
Is there a name for that stroke where you lie on your back and kind of do a breaststroke kick with you feet?
Isn’t lap swimming in a bikini uncomfortable?
Is there really any point overtaking me if you’re going to hit the wall at the same time as me?
Do you really need to keep hydrated with your fancy water bottle every few laps?
Don’t get me started on aquarobics, fortunately I was done before that started this morning.

Anyway, I’m glad that I did it, even though now I can’t lift my arms above my rib cage and I smell like I’ve been bleached. I should do it more often. But not often enough to buy a pass.

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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.