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It’s hot, and operation bikini should have started months ago. I am not talking about the 1963 war film Operation Bikini, but about the desperate attempts of the attempts that women make to flatten our tums, slim our waists and tone our thighs before having to expose it all on the beach. Unfortunately, I have let myself go so badly that there will be no bikini unless I diet rigorously for at least six months, work out like a manic and have some serious liposuction, a tummy tuck, and get some other bits tightened up and lifted. Just as well I have a pool at my house and nobody sees the result of all that chocolate.
If I had started in time to look good this summer, by I would be well into my third tube of anti-cellulite cream, have worn out a couple of pairs of trainers on the treadmill and I would have forgotten all about chocolate and spaghetti Bolognese, however, as usual I’ve left it too late. It’s hot, the sea looks inviting, but there is no chance I’ll be baring my blubbery body on the beach this year. I did nothing until a visit to the endocrinologist three weeks ago, who gave me a strict 1,200 calorie diet and ordered me to walk for at least an hour a day. This has motivated me to take control and find myself a personal trainer who is training (torturing) me three times a week at great expense (it’s worth it). I hate going to the gym, but I know I have to, and maybe one day, I might even find it fun.
I have been turning up 20 minutes early and thrashing around on the cross trainer before the gruesome one-to-one session begins. Apparently, working the arms and legs at the same time sends more blood to the heart, and helps to prevent strokes and heart attacks. It makes me want to die. This is followed by a punishing session during which I sweat and swear as I obey the personal trainer as she orders me to lift, lunge, squat (the most hideous movement known to man) and lift weights until my arms are shaking so much I can’t control them.
My trainer tries to fool me with her cheery face and positive reassurance, but the only way I can get through the most agonising moments is by imagining that I am climbing a cliff (I am afraid of heights) and I only have to do three more lunges or lifts or planks to get to the top and be safe. Thank goodness that it’s a private studio and nobody can see me rolling off the bench like a beached whale and getting up off the floor like a 90-year-old. So much for Operation Bikini. More like operation sealion.
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