New year, new me and other cliches

I bet that New Year’s resolutions of half of the ~western~ world population have written “going to the gym” in big fat letters on their lists. And quite high in the ranking of “improve yourself” moves. I know mine did.

I also bet that those resolutions didn’t survive January. Mine definitely didn’t. I started creating New Month resolutions, hoping that the shorter time frame would help. Spoiler alert, it didn’t.

But not this year. 2017 will be different, hopefully…

After 10 days spent in a food coma, or, as we call it in Italy, Christmas holidays, I rushed back to London to get back into a healthy routine. Or at least try to. My no-bread-carb or refined sugar policy stoically kept me away from the first chocolate cake in the office kitchen. Just the following day I, somehow,  managed to ignore a box from Dum Dum Doughnuts.

But when the first event of the year brought in pizza, I had no choice but admit defeat and give in to my delicious enemy.

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“Well, eating better is not working exactly as planned, but now I’m training, so still counts as healthy habits right?” Not entirely true, but, you know, Rome wasn’t built in a day and < INSERT MOTIVATIONAL CLICHE’ HERE> so still kudos for me.

I met with Cilia again on the first Sunday on 2017, a ridiculously cold morning, in our training spot in Clissold Park.

I was so pumped up for being a good human being and NOT inventing any weird excuses to skip the class, that I started without a single complaint. For literally 5 minutes.

Then everything started aching so badly I started swearing in Italian. Not that I was doing crazy thing, that’s just how bad I am as a trainee.


At some point, I was negotiating the activities with Cilia. If I was her, I would have been extra pissed at me, but she’s just smiled and kept encouraging me to push my physical boundaries. And it felt good, really good – except for the fact that I almost threw up at the end, but I managed to avoid it, so YAY ME.

Here you go, the final result…


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