As I haphazardly peel the lycra jogging pants over my blubbery waist I am reminded of what a baby must feel like when finally relieving itself from it's mother's comforting and cosy womb. This isn't pretty. Perhaps I should have been more like the girl on the Special K advert and plastered pictures of myself looking trim and wonderful in a bikini all over vending machines, fridges and cookie jars but trying to find said picture in the first place has been akin to looking for a long lost dead sea scroll.
A little sigh escapes as the waist band begins to cut off blood flow.
My first aerobics class in 2 years, how on Earth am I going to cope? I have visions of myself dropping to the ground after 10 minutes with heart failure, everyone's last sight of me will be dribble rolling from the side of my contorted mouth and the paramedic shoe-horning me out of my Adidas tracksuit bottoms to stabilise circulation once more.
Who the hell chooses aerobics as a means of easing oneself into a relaxing exercise regime?? I am severely doubting my ability to make decisions without adult supervision and am finding more and more of these bright ideas seem to be whilst under the influence, in fact my last 3 boyfriends are prime example of this!
Okay it's countdown time, 1 minute then I have to leave. My friend will be waiting outside my door and has been told to use any means required to extract me from my habitat. She is a tiger. I can't afford a replacement door. So I must go.
Goodbye all. Goodbye.
LPx
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