A cake Lover's thoughts on exercise
I’m not exactly a “just a small piece” kind of girl. I believe all new bakes must be sufficiently taste tested (and bakes I’ve been making for years, come to think of it), and I really don’t understand people who can take a bit of cake, then set the plate to one side and come back to it later. If I’ve taken mouthful of food and then not immediately devoured the rest, I’m either hungover or sickening for something. Or it’s got peas in it.
To (just barely) offset this volume of cake consumption I have to run. And attend the gym. And bag up sticks of carrots as a mid-morning snack just to stop me dashing to the shop for a peanut butter Kit Kat chunky.
Seeing as running, jumping, lifting heavy things and wrangling my body into muscle training contortions are not things which come naturally to me, I blast the motivational music up loud and pump it through my headphones by way of a distraction. The problem is, I’m always disappointed I’m not in a place where it’s socially acceptable to just stop and dance along.
I think I’d enjoy running an awful lot more if you could just stop, mid-run, pose, shake it off and then carry on your merry way, just because Taylor Swift came round on shuffle. And how great would it be if “Uptown Funk” started up in the gym and everyone immediately dropped their kettle bells and body popped in perfect synch? My imagination runs wild…
I’m honestly tempted; if I’m on a quiet path, early in the morning, and it’s sort of dark, I think about a crafty shuffle along with Pharrell. I haven’t yet, for fear that just behind the next bush is a group of people, that probably know me, or worse, my husband, who’ve been waiting for confirmation I’ve actually, finally, cracked.
I’m too conscious of what other people think, and my lycra-look is dodgy enough. Given my gangly interpretation of dance moves, onlookers may be concerned I’m having a stroke. I joined a dance class once, but the huge mirrors at the front of the room quickly dispelled any misguided belief that I had “natural rhythm”.
And so it is that my dancing remains the preserve of dimly lit bars, where the people are usually too drunk to take notice of my poorly executed moves, and in the privacy of my kitchen where I can throw all the shapes I like without fear of judgement.