Something more crap than hormones

Why in the name of all things holy did I possibly imagine that watching a bunch of tanned, super toned blonde goddesses twirl about on an Australian beach would make me feel better about myself? I know that I'm not fit. But I can do pilates. I can. Ok. But apparently I cannot do Pilates OZ style. Because that, my friends, requires the follwing:

• Size DD breasts
• Very dark tan
• Very white teeth. Dazzling in fact.
• A very spinny aroundy type of mat that lets you change position in the blink of an eye.
• The ability to dislocate your hips so that your stomach can lie flat on the floor while your legs splay out to the sides
• The ability to change position at an incredible speed - about twenty times every two seconds - all while holding in your inner core muscles while looking graceful and not grunting
• knowing what the swan, the seashell, the catch, the cobra and the cat are without ever having been told about them before and without being able to look at the sodding tv to see what they are because your head is tucked up inside your armpit while your legs are tied in knots
• more floor space and less furniture in your house.

I never got to the end of the video. I got to the part called 'choreography' where we had to put all of the above bits together at high speed at which point I just sat back in awe and watched the rippling flat stomachs, before standing up and admiring my paunch, Tesco tracky bottoms, droopy boobs and pale skin. I definitely don't feel filled with endorphins.

All I have to show for my pains is a crick in my neck and something approaching a carpet burn at the point where my butt starts and my back ends. It is incredibly painful. Perhaps I should have tried the yoga DVD and Ohmmed myself into a good mood. I will declare today a disaster and try again tomorrow.