Channeling my inner Olivia Newton John, Jane Fonda, Richard Simmons and that little girl from the movie Kick-Ass, I went to my first exercise class in more than a year yesterday. Shame on me, I know. Shame, shame, shame.
So there I was, doing all the wrong steps to a medley of groovin’ 80s tunes (Peru is the land that indy, rock and dance music forgot), and feeling strangely happy.
It has crossed my mind, of course, that improved fitness might mean improved fertility, but that wasn’t my whole reason for going. Physical exhaustion tends to cancel out mental exhaustion in my experience, and I have spent too much time dwelling recently. I am in danger of becoming obsessed with this quest to have a baby.
If I was a cocktail I would be one part dweller, one part dreamer and one part commando. My best hope of avoiding the obsessive path is tapping into my inner commando and just doing things. As many things as possible. Every time I take action – see the doctor, make a financial plan for a baby, go to the gym – I feel better.
Came home knackered to find Rufus had pilfered a flower from me from a neighbourhood garden. Life is sweet.