That’s it. I’m all out of excuses.
Jesse Boy is ten months old, he’s not interested in mum’s moloko any more so I no longer need to eat with him in mind, book 3 is finished and in the last couple of weeks, my mum has retired.
So I can diet. I can leave the baby for an hour and go to the gym. See? My excuses are like the contents of our biscuit tin. Ain’t nuttin left.
That said, I can’t have my mother running over to our place every day and seeing as I love scoffing food almost as much as I love my kids (some days it’s close… real close), I’m going to have to put in a regular effort if these thighs are ever gonna see the inside of my favourite slacks again.
Much as I’ve enjoyed developing them, and much as they hang so attractively out of the top of my maternity jeans (yes, I’m still wearing them), I need to shift these muffin tops.
I need something quick and simple I can do at home a couple of times a day without anyone watching me wiggle. So I’m having another blast with a Hula Hoop, which is fairly fitting given how many packets of Salt & Vinegar I snaffled during the last months finishing off my manuscript.
I’ve tried this before, when they were first in fash, and it bloody killed. After knocking the kettle off the kitchen worktop with the hoop from hell (the thing was stupid-huge, you needed a helipad for safe clearance) and persevering because it was ‘working wonders’ for the bloody celebs, my weak, commoner ribs felt like they’d been kicked by a horse. I actually cried privately after wincing my way through a second bash with that awful contraption. It now resides in the shed… nicely webbed up and covered in slug trails… right next to my fitness trampette.
But I’ve got myself a new bad boy. A new, padded-so-I-don’t-hurt-meself jobby. So I’m gonna give it a proper good whirl this time, twice a day away from small kitchen appliances, and see how the old muffin-tops fare. If I’m organised, I might even manage to keep some kinda Hula Hoop diary goin. This could get messy…
Knighty’s muffin-tops. A brief history…