I became a dad 4 months ago. Today I did exercise for the first time since the twins were born. Such was my performance you’d think I’d spent that time living in a squat smoking crack.
My diet has been so bad since the babies arrived I’m sure I could taste cholesterol in a burp yesterday. If my weight gain had been dramatic at least I would’ve bought new clothes in the next size up but because it’s been a slow build I’m still trying to squeeze into my old ones. I put a pair of jeans on last week and nearly called the fire brigade to come and release me.
I definitely need some fitness back so I went to my old regular game of 5-a-side football. The first ten minutes were okay – I paced myself and didn’t do anything stupid like run or sweat. Then I got a lucky bounce that spooned off my shin and dribbled into their net which gave me something that nobody lacking in skill and fitness should ever have – confidence.
Now I was shouting for the ball and trying to get involved in tactics, while the other players seemed to look at me thinking, ‘Why is this fat version of that fella who used to play with us months ago shouting at us?’
Then I got myself into a situation. I called for the ball and our player booted it right down the wing, causing me to jog for it. I quickly realized I should start moving a bit quicker if I wanted to stand any chance of getting to it so I started to motor through the gears. (I use the word ‘motor’ in the loosest possible sense, I was accelerating with all the vigour of a dilapidated canal barge.)
Finally I reached my full speed. I knew this because I could feel my tits bouncing up and down. Yes – tits. Not man-boobs or ‘moobs’ if you’re hip. Just good old fashioned boobs, bouncing up and down in time with my hapless and heavy strides. Where the hell have they sprung from? I wasn’t even aware I had a cleavage until it started jiggling about beneath my numerous chins.
I felt like a combination of the buffalo at the back of the herd and Pamela Anderson at the beginning of Baywatch. Am I too old to wear a starter bra? Answers on a postcard, please.
Running felt weird, an out of body experience. My whole frame felt bigger and harder to control, like trying to drive your dads work van when you’re used to a Fiesta. It was no surprise that my opponent got to the ball before me - I was moving slower than French cinema – but now I had to figure out how to slow down and stop.
I was tempted to just keep going and join the game on the next pitch across but thankfully, sanity prevailed and I managed to use the treacle that I’d been running in to my advantage. Turning with all the grace of a capsizing ocean liner I somehow slammed the brakes on and started to spin back towards the game. The only thing missing was that beeping noise that lorries make when they reverse.
And that was me done. I had nothing left to give after my failed attack. My legs felt heavier than a Black Sabbath chorus but there was still 45 minutes to play and there’s only so many times you can tie your shoelaces while trying not to cry. Add to that an almost textbook case of ‘joggers nipple’ which gave me an insight into the pain women must suffer when breastfeeding. The chaffing was infuriatingly relentless, like those automated PPI phone calls.
I knew I’d nearly made it to the end when the next group started lining up on the touchline - about 30 teenage lads who started cheering good tackles and nice crossfield passes, so obviously we all tried to raise our game due to the 'big match atmosphere'.
Then something mad happened. Dave (who organises the game, is bald, 45 years old and about 17 stone) got the ball in his own area. Due to his baldness the lads on the touchline started calling him 'Robben' after the Bayern Munich dynamo and this name seemed to seep into his inner being as he began uncharacteristically jinking and japing through our midfield.
The cheering got louder with every tackle he rode and we couldn't get near his dazzling run. After it seemed like he'd beaten all of our players twice he was suddenly one-on-one with our keeper but losing his balance away from goal. His new fans held their breath as their idol managed to shift his body weight and defy the laws of physics to scoop the ball gracefully over the advancing keeper and into the empty net.
The crowd went ballistic, Dave sank to the ground (probably in tears) and I laughed like a 12 year old girl. My god, it was amazing.
But the laughter hurt my love-handles and as I write this my legs have already seized up. By tomorrow I’ll be stiffer than a shot of Jameson’s and walking like Robocop.
When I got home I ate two bags of crisps and half a packet of hob-nobs, rendering the entire hour completely pointless.
I should probably take up golf or Subbuteo at this point.
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