Catriona

2009

The sudden onrush of fitness madness in a forty-something woman, who has rested on her laurels since the day she left the school hockey team, may look pretty ugly to the rest of the human community. I admit that I used to think, “oh yuk” if I caught sight of a middle aged woman – or man I grant you – wobbling along the street in a kind of ‘let’s-not-get-too-far-above-the-pavement’ jog/walk, whilst puffing out tomato red cheeks. I used to imagine the extensive amount of chaffing going on body-wide – under breasts, between legs, under each belly fold – well I’m sure you get the image.

A month ago I finally decided to take up sport again. Ha! That sounds grand…. well get fit at any rate. Or just reduce the wobbly bits for starters. Now, five gym sessions a week and eight weeks later, I cheer on any brave souls I see progressing along the street in that gait so optimistically described as jogging and in clothing scant enough to show distracting amounts of moving flesh to the general public. I mean, that’s bravery worthy of a medal. I’m not talking here about those annoyingly slinky, lycra-clad, air-brushed visions who shout ‘look at me’ as they fly through the air dodging people and traffic. No no, I’m referring here to all those lumpy bumpy folk who’d so much rather be supine on a sofa.

Why the epiphany? It all came down to vanity in the end. I needed a dress for a “do”: a Christmas Eve bash held by an old school friend of mine in her London pad. I wouldn’t normally go to such lengths (an overnight train to London, yuk!) to get to a party. But Joanna has hit the big time. I mean, she’s only gone and married into royalty (minor royalty, but hey, I’ve been promised that Eugene and Beatrice will be there). So little ol’ moi will be there, come hell or high water. We both left the whole marriage thing a bit late, what with our careers and our social life (well hers anyway, I can’t claim to have much of a one), but if she can do it then I reckon there’s still hope for me.

Dressing up, you must appreciate, is not something at which I excel. Unless it’s dressing up fancy dress style: now that I have a real flair for (although come to think of it I haven’t had occasion to do that for a while. Don’t people throw fancy dress parties any more? We used to do them all the time at uni.) But trying to look elegant or sexy or just plain smart, well that’s not my strength. I’m a librarian up at the university, you see, with not much call for looking dressy. Head librarian, I’ll have you know, as of last summer. 

A quick look in the wardrobe produced precisely, “nothing to wear”. I know, I know; every girl says that, but I really mean it. That old wood box was devoid of dresses, unless you count the old black, handy-for-a-funeral one and the ‘puke yellow’ handy-for-a-wedding one. Other items hanging there could be collectively described as dull, comfortable, and sensible. I was truly shocked – when did this happen to me? When did I transform from scruffy student to dull librarian? Gawd! Time to tart this old biddy up.

So I went dress shopping – hilarious! I spent a happy day trawling Princes Street, George Street and all the wee streets in between. And do you know what I found out? My waistline (‘line’ being a bit of a misnomer) is wider at all points than either my chest or my hips. Was… was. I can tell you here and now that this is not a good look. Not an easy shape to fit into a dress, unless you opt for the tent style. And, bad luck for me, “dresses are all very fitted this season” said the ridiculously skinny teenage shop assistants with a sideways glance and a smirk shared with their colleagues.

I tell you what, I hadn’t communicated with a full length mirror for at least a decade and I ended that day of shopping deciding to maintain my purdah with them for a long time hence. They all, indisputably, told me that I was, “no longer the fairest of them all”. Well I probably never had been, but one gets away with assuming it for at least the first three decades of life.

I sloped home for lunch (oh yes I should admit that my “day” shopping only lasted until midday: disheartening experiences are just so exhausting) and mulled things over with my friends – a battered red biscuit box designed exclusively for Digestives, and a terracotta butter dish. I stared at them balefully and sighed disconsolately and that was when they finally told me, (and I think this was very noble of them, considering) that it was time I banished them from my life and made friends with the fruit bowl instead.

Back out in the urban jungle and a billboard ad. leapt out at me. “Treat your loved one to the gift of Inspiration this Christmas!” it shouted at me, and I gave the driver behind me a quick shot of adrenaline by jamming on my brakes. Thankfully the lights up ahead changed to red, which gave me time to read the whole ad. and discover that “Inspiration” is the name of a new health club in Tollcross. The ad. was suggesting that one could buy a three month membership card for one’s loved one for Christmas. Or indeed for oneself, I thought. As it was only September at the time, I wasn’t quite clear, but had to assume that the suggestion was to join for three months before Christmas (and therefore be able to get into the sheath of red silk that the model on the billboard appeared to have spray painted on to her svelte body).

The clincher was the dress. I suppose you had to hand it to the marketing agents. They hadn’t put a girl in gym kit on the ad. No. They’d depicted her all dolled up, looking devastatingly gorgeous and ready to party…the end result…the Inspiration. Oh, right, got it. The guy behind me tapped his horn with Morningside politeness, but with a head full of red dress it still took a moment for me to register the green light.

Thing was, the only dress I’d actually lusted after that morning had been a little flimsy silken halterneck number, smouldering red and clingy from nipple to knee, just like this billboard one (are those ad guys getting backhanders from the shop, I wondered). No matter, it was a slam dunk. I’d joined that club by the end of the day.

Am I having a mid-life crisis, I also wondered, red being a colour my mother always told me not to wear. “It gives the wrong message darling” she had said. Well, I’m just beginning to see the light here – perhaps that message is just the one I want to be giving, unless I’m committed to the idea of everlasting spinsterhood. I think I’ll model myself on that temptress in Love Actually who seduced Alan Rickman. That’ll be a laugh.

Next morning I very nearly walked away from the whole mad notion: the first thing that met my eye on walking into the gym was….me….in a full length mirror. On pirouetting (one can dream) a full 360˚ I came to the awful truth – the whole room was covered in mirrors. Every wall from ceiling to floor was a mirror. Nightmare!

Look, I’ll just skip the next few weeks. Suffice to say that a lot of sweat and more than a few tears have been shed. There’s a whole heap of agony associated with re-discovering long forgotten muscle groups, interspersed with moments of delirious surprise when discovering long forgotten strengths (I’m still good at squat thrusts, hurrah!).

But here’s the best bit (take heed all those who litter their conversations with, “I used to….” as in play hockey, run marathons, row for Scotland etc etc) – it all comes back. Give it a go. Your body will complain like hell for about the first month and then sneakily start to enjoy the workouts and then even more surreptitiously start to get competitive with itself and with the other lycra clad bodies in the room. By the end of two months – I know because I’m there – you’re hooked. I guarantee you’ll be drinking filtered water from a non-plastic bottle, filling the old biscuit tin with organic nut and seed mixes and foregoing the glass (or the second glass at any rate) of wine of an evening. 

There’s only one problem that I’ve discovered so far and it’s this. If you miss a session you feel a bit slumpy the next day. If you miss two or three sessions then the force of gravity takes control once more and you collapse entirely and never want to leave the sofa again. This is blatantly unfair. This did not happen through one’s school years: a whole summer of indolence could go by without any ill effects whatsoever to one’s fitness level or the height above ground of one’s belly and bum. This is entirely not fair, but it is the blunt and awful truth: once you’ve started on this particular treadmill you have to keep it up. It becomes a compulsion for reasons of bare necessity and gruesome fear. Especially once you’ve bought the red dress – which I did this morning.

Now it’s the afternoon of the 23rd December and I’m packing for a party. This morning I endured a double session at the gym, in the hope that this will pull me through the next few days of travelling and partying without the dreaded body slump taking hold. I tell you what, when someone told me, about fifteen years ago, that growing old isn’t pretty I nodded but I had no idea what they were on about. I mean no idea!

©Julia Welstead