Swimming

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I knew exactly how I was going to start this post. ‘Why do gyms have to have *such* shit music?’ I’d blast. ‘All I want to do is get my cardio on without brain-washing levels of misogynistic, repetitive club drivel grinding up against my eardrums. My gym staff have the worst Spotify skills EVER.’ But then I went yesterday, at my usual sort of time, and they were having a rare oasis of chilled-out Indie: REM, Coldplay. And it’s completely thrown me. I fully expect to be back to Jockstrap FM next week though. Girl I wanna freak you/Gimme your love/You better work bitch. Blah.

But I digress. Reader, I’ve been swimming. I’m a lazy girl at heart, and after a long winter of Scandal marathons under a furry throw, I’m starting to pine for my stronger, slimmer pre-winter self. I’m not very good at The Gym. I don’t really like running on the spot (how did treadmills EVER take off?), but I’m also not waking up to enough of those piercingly bright mornings that will tempt me out onto Tooting Bec Common. So I joined the gym through work, one with a huge basement swimming pool with sauna, steam room etc on hand. And I’m sort of sticking to it. Probably because there’s no music in there – though a colleague recently told me about these Speedo underwater MP3 players, and I’m tempted. My swims will be a strictly ‘inspirational women’ zone though, with Whitney, Chaka, Madonna and Gaga egging me on.

I must stress that my new-found enthusiasm for amphibious exercise has nothing to do with being ‘beach body ready’. It might have something to do with my recent acquisition of a gloriously feminine Ted Baker swimsuit. And a lot to do with the supremely positive health campaign This Girl Can. But I’m taking my body to the beach at the end of this month – ready or not. And I can’t wait.

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