If you've read a previous post titled 'The Fat Fight', you'll know I've been following the 'Idiot Proof Diet' (IPD) for quite a while now (since the end of last June, since you ask). It's basically low carbohydrate eating, and I like it. I like it a lot.
Like any decent weight loss plan, IPD strongly recommends you increase your level of activity as you progress through the days and down the scales. I have no problem with that; anyone with a brain cell knows that to lose weight you have to eat less and move more.
At the beginning of the diet the authors (India Knight and Neris Thomas) suggest you start off with a brisk 10 minute walk after breakfast. Well, I thought, I can do that. And so I did. I quite enjoyed it.
The next idea was, again entirely reasonably, to increase the time. No problem, I muttered to myself. I can do that, too. And soon I was up to a 4 or 5 mile walk most days, which, living where I do on the coast, is not exactly a hardship.
But then someone (well, India, actually) uttered a dirty word. The G word. You know, as in 'Join a Gym. '
Now I know she is 100% incontrovertibly, absolutely and unarguably RIGHT. I totally agree that the gym is where you will become toned and sleek; your newly slender body will emerge trimmed of unsightly flab, you will flex those muscles and Glory will be yours.
But. I'm not going to a gym. Not a snowball's chance in Hell; not over any one's dead body; not even if Hell were to freeze over. No.
Because, you see, I know who goes to the gym. The gym is populated by slim young things encased in straining day-glo Lycra, muscled arms out for display, sleek legs pumping on the machines, taut midriffs peeking happily out from under cropped tank tops. For Heaven's sake, they even manage to look good when they sweat.
Me, on the other hand- I'm 60, with fish belly-white wobbly bits. Exertion soon leaves me with a puce face, very stylish with the grey hair. Any midriff of mine on show wouldn't be so much 'peeking happily' as trying desperately to mount a grim escape. Even industrial strength Lycra would surrender. My bingo wings alone could give you a black eye. There's no question about it; the Gym is out of the question.
So what to do?
Well, as I mentioned, I live near the sea. The beach is one of my favourite places. I go there to walk, to think, to absorb the natural beauty and get fresh air and peace. I love it. I also love the creatures who live there, yes, even the seagulls.
And now, if you'll excuse me for a minute, I'm going to be a GOW (Grumpy Old Woman). I hate how people (not everyone, I know) dump litter there. They bring food for the day and leave the wrappers blowing all over the beach: Beer cans, drinks bottles, plastic bags and cigarette lighters. Boaters gaily chuck detritus over the side, bits of old rope, oil cans and burst balloons with streamers attached. It fouls the beach and the ocean. I watch the birds pecking away at rubbish, I know the fish have to swim in it, and it makes my blood pressure rise.
So- I've decided to use my pet hate to get my exercise. I take an old plastic shopping bag and a pair of Marigold gloves down to the beach and I collect the trash. I have some rules- anything that doesn't belong on a beach goes into the bag, it doesn't matter how small it is. And I must completely fill the bag. I fill at least one bag every time I go. It's very satisfying. By the time I've hauled my chubby self up and down the zig-zag cliff path and spent an hour picking up the pieces, it's also quite a work out.
When I'm finished the beach is cleaner, I'm less aggravated, an old shopping bag is put to good use, and I get to go home feeling extremely smug. Best of all- I don't have to go to the Gym.
Now that's what I call a result!
Like any decent weight loss plan, IPD strongly recommends you increase your level of activity as you progress through the days and down the scales. I have no problem with that; anyone with a brain cell knows that to lose weight you have to eat less and move more.
At the beginning of the diet the authors (India Knight and Neris Thomas) suggest you start off with a brisk 10 minute walk after breakfast. Well, I thought, I can do that. And so I did. I quite enjoyed it.
The next idea was, again entirely reasonably, to increase the time. No problem, I muttered to myself. I can do that, too. And soon I was up to a 4 or 5 mile walk most days, which, living where I do on the coast, is not exactly a hardship.
But then someone (well, India, actually) uttered a dirty word. The G word. You know, as in 'Join a Gym. '
Now I know she is 100% incontrovertibly, absolutely and unarguably RIGHT. I totally agree that the gym is where you will become toned and sleek; your newly slender body will emerge trimmed of unsightly flab, you will flex those muscles and Glory will be yours.
But. I'm not going to a gym. Not a snowball's chance in Hell; not over any one's dead body; not even if Hell were to freeze over. No.
Because, you see, I know who goes to the gym. The gym is populated by slim young things encased in straining day-glo Lycra, muscled arms out for display, sleek legs pumping on the machines, taut midriffs peeking happily out from under cropped tank tops. For Heaven's sake, they even manage to look good when they sweat.
Me, on the other hand- I'm 60, with fish belly-white wobbly bits. Exertion soon leaves me with a puce face, very stylish with the grey hair. Any midriff of mine on show wouldn't be so much 'peeking happily' as trying desperately to mount a grim escape. Even industrial strength Lycra would surrender. My bingo wings alone could give you a black eye. There's no question about it; the Gym is out of the question.
So what to do?
Well, as I mentioned, I live near the sea. The beach is one of my favourite places. I go there to walk, to think, to absorb the natural beauty and get fresh air and peace. I love it. I also love the creatures who live there, yes, even the seagulls.
And now, if you'll excuse me for a minute, I'm going to be a GOW (Grumpy Old Woman). I hate how people (not everyone, I know) dump litter there. They bring food for the day and leave the wrappers blowing all over the beach: Beer cans, drinks bottles, plastic bags and cigarette lighters. Boaters gaily chuck detritus over the side, bits of old rope, oil cans and burst balloons with streamers attached. It fouls the beach and the ocean. I watch the birds pecking away at rubbish, I know the fish have to swim in it, and it makes my blood pressure rise.
So- I've decided to use my pet hate to get my exercise. I take an old plastic shopping bag and a pair of Marigold gloves down to the beach and I collect the trash. I have some rules- anything that doesn't belong on a beach goes into the bag, it doesn't matter how small it is. And I must completely fill the bag. I fill at least one bag every time I go. It's very satisfying. By the time I've hauled my chubby self up and down the zig-zag cliff path and spent an hour picking up the pieces, it's also quite a work out.
When I'm finished the beach is cleaner, I'm less aggravated, an old shopping bag is put to good use, and I get to go home feeling extremely smug. Best of all- I don't have to go to the Gym.
Now that's what I call a result!
3 comments:
I absolutely love that you do this. You don't need a gym if you do this. And you are right about the lycra'd types in the gym - I work out beside them. Trust me though, my workout clothes do not allow bits of me to peek out; there's none of that!
love, Caroline
As always I really enjoyed this and think it's great that you're not only getting the fresh air and exercise but cleaning up the beach as well.
I say good for you and so well put!
Kathy
I shall do this from now on as I make my treks up to the Griffith Observatory. When I am bent over catching my breath or stretching out my screaming calve muscles I'll make every effort to pick up the wayward gum wrapper or bottle cap.
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