Sportiness has never been my forte. I spent many a high school P.E. class hiding in the toilets. So, when I started feeling excited about the concept of post-pregnancy exercising, it was a disturbingly unfamiliar state. “A yummy mummy fitness course!” I exclaimed. “I’ll run the half marathon in November!” I enthused.

I’ve since realised that what I’m visualising is poncing about in Lululemon workout gear, sipping a concoction fresh from the juicer, cracking walnuts on my taut bum as a party trick, and talking about how amazing all the exercise endorphins are making me feel. I don’t want to do the actual exercising bit.
Also, I’ve never even been into a Lululemon store, my juicer has been slowly gathering dust since my last foray into fitness (circa ‘08 and ’09, when I started making monthly donations to a gym and stopped eating solids for a while in anticipation of fitting into a slinky wedding dress), I prefer Brazil nuts to walnuts, and I’m quite happy with the endorphin-esque buzz found at the bottom of a nice, tall Gin & Tonic.

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