Confessions of an unfit entrepreneur.

Confessions of an entrepreneur Darcey CroftEntrepreneurs in general, especially the successful ones always seem to be really fit. I can see why. Discipline, productivity, creativity and fitness – they go hand in Under Armour gloved hand.

However the number one limiting thing I am struggling with at the moment is my fitness. Rather a massive lack of it. And this makes me feel crap on so many levels.

I know the impact fitness has on life is really important, I know the benefits and how good it will make me feel but I don’t know where to start. Its been so long since I did anything worthy of calling exercise and I know this is a struggle that many people have, other people like me. Not the yogis, athletes and body builders I have in my Instagram feed doing their very best to inspire me.

This is why I’ve decided to share some personal weightloss/fitness posts. Mainly because I hope it will hold me accountable.  I’m guessing a public fat to fit journal is a close equivalent of how medieval stocks might feel. And right now, I’ll take any help I can get – even public shaming.

Lets begin with how appalled I am with my body measurements. They are abysmal and acknowledging the kind of behaviour I have been indulging in lately, things are only going to get much worse. For example, last night I was sitting on my arse until 3am building a website, then today sitting again on my arse all morning /early afternoon building another website. This made me very lethargic so I flopped onto the bed feeling physically and mentally drained and then began fighting with myself to get back up and go for a walk, but it was so difficult because it was so warm  and comfortable.

David came up and said “you’re not going to like this, you need to do something about your weight and fitness before you fall off the cliff and never return”. Rather than feeling slighted, I was grateful. All these years, he has told me how he adores my curves and indulged me with splendid and huge meals he has lovingly cooked and in part, however wrong, it was really easy to pass responsibility to him for my doubling in size since meeting him.

After the pep talk I went downstairs and whipped out a tape measure. I thought if I could measure changes rapidly it would keep my motivation up, if I am working hard, eating less, then surely I will notice it in the measurements. I made a chart and started inputing the data.

OMG it is bad.

I am pear shaped! (forgive me I’m not a pear shapist it’s just not my shape)

My former lovely hour glass figure is now hidden under soft cushioned layers of chunk. In the same way, when I was 20 years old and weighed 7 stone, thought I was fat and starved myself – now I am 13 stone and have been thinking I look alright and therefore ok to treat myself to the odd (too many) indulgences (aka fat shit) while I sit on on my ‘no need for silicon’ implanted backside.

I believe this is a condition called body morphia and, from whichever end of the view point I stand, its time to acknowledge the default in my mind – not being able to see myself. From now on I will only trust written measurements and non biased comments from bluntly honest friends.

10 minutes after this wake up call. Ear phones on. Running for weight loss app downloaded (premium upgrade). Sexy voiced personal trainer called Erik selected. Cool music streaming and off Erik and I go. He gently whispers in my ear to begin my warm up. Then, suggests a little 1 minute run followed by a 2 minute walk. This is ok, not too bad at all.

Fast forward 20minutes. Beginning to think Erik is a narcissistic sadist. His sultry voice tells me ‘time to start running for 1 minute’ pause… and 30 seconds’ FFS is this humour. The 30 seconds is nearly putting me over the edge. My ankles and knees and everything else getting pounded every two minutes is torturous. On and on he drives me for 34minutes and I follow his every word. Finally, almost at my point of weeping, he says ‘Great Job! Your done ( I think ‘am I ever’) ‘I like working out with you, your in such good’ He doesn’t finish his sentence, sexy sarcastic sadist that he is and music cuts back in. I feel sweat even under my eyes and limp through the front door, feeling like a triumphant battle scarred warrior, demanding attention to praise me for this glorious feat that I (an Erik the sadist) have vanquished.

Kind of feels good.

I’ll do it again tomorrow and again, until I unearth that deeply buried hour glass figure of mine.

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