This week saw a heatwave for the U.K. I’m usually pretty good in heat; it’s when I’m at my best. Well, not really. Truth is, I don’t really feel heat so while others flag, I’m just operating at my usual level and pretending to be super productive.
It’s had some interesting effects. I’m drinking more water and less Diet Coke. I’m genuinely hydrated for perhaps the first time in my life. I used to be able to get through two litres a day and it contains no calories, but it wasn’t doing anything for me either.
What’s this week’s post about?
That’s right. The evil monster that has turned my system into a well-oiled, spotty machine – water.
It has brought me out in horrendous spots. Water is genuinely good for you – not just because there aren’t any colories in it, but because our bodies are made up of so much of it and we’re constantly depleting our supplies even as we breathe. It also flushes impurities out of your system, hence my problem. My impurities, clearly, are all in my nose and chin, in obvious places where the world can see them. (I know, however, that these will fade, leaving my skin looking fresh and pretty.)
Drinking more water is easy. Sure, it’s not the tastiest thing out there, but no-added-sugar squash makes it more palatable and just as healthy. Green, black, or even lemon tea (by which I mean black tea to which you have literally added a slice of lemon, not that sugar-filled instant stuff) also count.
This week I invested in a 1.5 litre bottle for my water for two reasons.
- It’s about the amount I need while I am at work.
- It’s heavy. So as I’m constantly on the move, I’m drinking from it in a desperate bid to make it lighter.
The heat has also done interesting things to my exercise routine. I am the idiot on the treadmill when it’s 30 degrees. I am the fool who finishes a burlesque workout looking like she’s done ten rounds with Ali.
On the subject of burlesque, I have a few words of warning, a cautionary tale if you will. I’m sure we all saw Xtina looking like a goddess and thought we might try our hand. A few of us of a certain age might remember The Pussycat Dolls’ music videos in which nobody sweats and everyone is sex on legs.
Yeah? Ringing any bells? Well, it is nothing like that!
Obviously the heat didn’t help. I was the colour of a radish before I even started cavorting around with a headscarf in place of a feather boa, but I still don’t think that can account for the state I ended up in.
This is, after all, not a burlesque routine, but a workout. It’s practising that routine over and over and over, until you are muttering “And squat. And squat. And flick that boa and left, right, boxstep, squat” interspersed with the kind of pathetic whimpers usually associated with a small trapped animal.
In short, it was the greatest workout I’ve ever had. Sure, I was nearly dead (I could literally wring the sweat out of my T-shirt which actually felt surprisingly good), but it was fun. Yeah, I felt self-conscious and a bit ridiculous at first. Yeah, I was accutely aware that I’m three stone overweight, but I forgot all these things as soon as I was moving. I didn’t have time. As anyone who knows me will attest, I have the grace of a drunken gazelle; I had a series of dance moves to concentrate on.
Just don’t let anyone tell you it’s easy. “It’ll be fun,” they said. “It’ll be a cinch,” they said. “Do it for your man,” they said, “it’ll really get him in the mood.”
Well, I don’t know about him, but I’m in the mood for a lie down.