It happens every year. Summer approaches and as the temperatures rise so does the realization that summer clothes are also approaching. You might think I’m referring to the commonly known and feared bikini season. Hah. You apparently must not have thighs.  No, I’m talking about short sleeves, shorts, even capris (if you obsess about your calves like I do), the list goes on.  For us of the larger than a stick persuasion, bikinis so aren’t the first stress point, more like just the most. In fact, by the time we reach the level of bikini, my stress is nuclear.

This year, however, I determined that I would break the cycle of hope, delusions and that eventual moment when I realise I actually am that lazy. That and that it’s all good since hubby loves me just the way I am. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mean that sentiment to encourage me to slack on getting fit, but whatev, he really should have been clearer. He says passive encouragement, I say implicit approval of my hard-earned sedentary lifestyle; you say tomato *music notes*… But I digress.

Knowing myself, I figured that just the want to be fit wouldn’t work so I decided instead to throw myself all butt cheeks in and sign up for Bermuda Heroes Weekend/Carnival. Yeah, I totally don’t do anything by halves. Not even, by quarters to be fair. I’m pretty much going for abject failure or DE ABS O’STEEL! No, I don’t have unrealistic expectations, why’d you ask?

Now, you might be wondering how I came up with the obviously fantabulous idea of using the possible end result of abject embarrassment to force myself to break out of my very rarely-ending cycle of keenness and then giving up for another year? Because I’m a masochist, of course!

So here I am with my ”jiggle even when the song ends” syndrome and less than two months. ..

I’m a huge fan of yoga but since I never really get past the deep breathing and neck rolls before I succumb to a well-earned nap or am rudely interrupted by the little monkey who figures that if my lap is near enough to be sat on, it must therefore be sat upon, I’m not sure that will help.

Then there’s barre, which I love. For about a minute until I remember I hate barre. Whereas apparently, it’s the idea of ballet I like more than the actual doing of it. (Totally explains me dropping out at 5 1/2 and then blaming my parents for the next ten years every time I fancied myself a dancer…)

I do like to lift weights but as I have children and a job and my couch really hates to be neglected, joining the gym kinda isn’t in my wheelhouse. Yes, I know I could buy free weights and lift at home but…la la la, I’m not listening to you…

Where was I? AH yes, so what is my plan, you ask? Well, joining my company’s fitness challenge of course. Because having the whole of Bermy see my failure to eradicate probably even a lone fat cell isn’t bad enough, let’s let my whole company witness my inability to, well, fitness.

And then I remembered why I even had the thought of the BHW idea in the first place. I have friends who I adore do it last year. They are more fit than me (obvs this isn’t hard) but they aren’t supermodels. Courageous as they come but not models. And then I also remember seeing the videos from last year and seeing the many shapes and sizes and costumes and I remember not thinking about any of that because I saw the joy and fun in each person’s eyes. I saw the dancing and the camaraderie and I didn’t think, hey, I want to be fit to do this… I thought I want to do this so I can have THAT. Carnival is less about the bodies and much more about the spirit.

And hey, if I do just happen to lose a pound or two getting all fit, well, let’s just consider that a bonus…

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