Over the past few weeks I have done sweet fuck all in the way of exercise. I've been somewhere in between stupidly busy and incredibly tired since the end of June and as a result I have totally let my fitness slide. And as we all know, getting back on that particular horse is one of the hardest things in the world to do, and so even when I have had a bit of energy and thought about tackling the great feat, I've neglected it, instead finding myself screaming internally at my trainers "WHAT'S THE BLOODY POINT?!" every time I see them. Not least of all because i was now getting out of breath going up the stairs and knew that I had a LOT of work to do to get back from that. 

But despite my total lack of fitness, I don't seem to have put any weight on and all of my clothes are still fitting with no drama, which, if I am honest, although seemingly a good thing, has actually made it even harder for me to motivate myself back in there. 

But then yesterday afternoon I found myself scrolling through the Mail Online *WHHYYYY* and saw an article about heart disease and how no one was safe from it and that actually, many 'slim' people were getting it too because of their 'internal fat'.

At which point I found my mind casting itself back to last weekend's 50 units of alcohol, to the 20 chocolate cookies that I had eaten on the Friday and how the week before had seen me demolish eight, yes EIGHT, burgers in six days and realised that if anyone deserved heart disease for poor life choices, it was me. So I freed my trainers from the bottom of my wardrobe and headed gym-wards. 

And it was fine. It wasn't as easy as I remembered it to be, nor was it as fun or as satisfying, but I suppose all of that comes as you get back into it, something which I am of course, a way off doing. (My plan for when I become a proper grown up with her shit under control is to set a 6.45am alarm and get into the habit of a morning run. Unsurprisingly however, this still sounds like hell on earth so isn't happening yet). 

But it's something that I am working on. And so whilst I am, as ever, incredibly pissed off with the Daily Mail for printing gross exaggerations in order to scare monger me into things I'm not even sure that I want to do, I suppose I probably ought to half-heartedly thank them for kick starting me. 

When I get into exercise I LOVE it. I love seeing actual real life impressive muscles appear on my body. I love how much energy I have. I love how well I sleep. But, since I'm only human, often my burning desire to eat baked potatoes on the sofa whilst binge watching Peaky Blinders until 3am trumps those feelings, and of course, that's fine too.

Right now though, i've decided that I don't want to get heart disease, so am planning to get back to it. I am going to look into lots of different exercises and will talk to the Pretty Normal Me fitness guru and see if we can work out a routine that is not only fun, but easy to stick to, which I will of course share with you the minute I have tested them.

But before that I ought to just say quickly that I am by no means trying to pull a Daily Mail trick here and scare you into the gym. Because after 22 years I have finally realised that you can't force these things, and that when it is your time do something, you'll know. 

Society has been all over me all summer to do something and I have been totally able to blank it out. I don't know what happened yesterday but something changed and I finally heard it. And THAT is when I knew that I was ready. If you are reading this and it is going totally over your head then relax, get back to your potato, because it's not your time yet, and that' okay.

You'll know when it's your time because that annoying internal voice will get so loud that you won't be able to ignore it any longer. But even then, you can never quite be sure. Don't beat yourself up, listen to your body and sure, take inspiration, but don't for a minute let the reason you're doing anything be for anyone else but yourself.