I woke up this morning with a rare burst of energy.

The sky was blue, with a distinct chill in the air, and as I opened up the shutters and looked out into the morning, I decided:

“I’m going to go for a run!”

As the kids got ready for school, I pulled out my activewear, which has been sitting untouched in the cupboard for well over six months.

“It’s been a while, Rysie” came the warning voice in my head.

But I wasn’t listening to that kind of negativity. No way. Not on a beautiful day like this.

I was sassy.
I was confident.
I admired my arse in the mirror, and applauded my choice of tights.
I pulled on my beanie, like, “you GOT THIS”.

Now, six months ago, I was pretty fit. I exercised often, ran decent distances and felt great.

In the past six months, aside from incidental exercise during my work shifts, taking the stairs, and occasionally walking the dogs, my exercise regime has pretty much been limited to taking the kid’s clothes upstairs and flexing my guns picking up the cat.

You’d think at some point, all of this would have occurred to me, like, PRIOR to jumping straight into a run, riiiight?

But no, no, no. Not this guy. I’m straight in there, just like I never stopped. And it felt great….for about 100m. Then, it just felt all kinds of bad.

There are three take home messages from today’s life lesson:

1. Wearing the activewear does not automaticaly an active Rysie make.

2. I need to spend some serious time on my pelvic floor.

3. Walking is more than fine.


If you need me, you’ll find me on the couch with my Twisties, where I actually belong.


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