Some couples celebrate their anniversary by exchanging gifts. Others read poetry to one another. And then there are those who mark the date in ways much too filthy to describe. For my boyfriend and I, our fifth anniversary started with me wielding a medicine ball (for the uninitiated, that's a weighted ball of around 14in diametre that is commonly used in toning exercises), and finished with him declaring that I have "quite literally, no core body strength". Good times!
This distinctive celebration was the result of some nagging fears on my part. There comes a point in any diet odyssey when you start worrying about your skin; specifically the notion that, as your weight recedes, your body's biggest organ doesn't necessarily quite keep pace. The terror arises that eventually you might end up a slimmish person encased in excessive folds of flesh, resembling nothing so much as a human Sharpei.
The only answer is to tone up, and so in the spring my boyfriend bought me a small, purple medicine ball; it has sat in our kitchen ever since, gathering dust and egg stains. That is until Saturday, when I pulled it out and asked him what to do with it.
The session didn't start well. My boyfriend asked me to raise the ball above my head three times; I gave up after the second elevation. He asked why. I told him it hurt. What can I say? Instinct has always told me that if something causes pain, stop doing it.
The next exercise involved me lying on my front, propped up on my elbows. I was meant to hold this pose for 10 seconds, and while the first five passed in a jiffy - my mind distracted by the large chunks of dirt suddenly visible from this mouse-eye view - by the count of six the pain had kicked in and I folded. This pattern continued through the squat thrusts, the press- ups, the medicine ball rotations - in fact, the entire 15 minutes was spent with my boyfriend suggesting I do something; me graciously refusing.
Actually, thinking about it, it was probably the most apt way we could possibly have celebrated our relationship. Who needs champagne?
