MOVING ON

                                        

Apparently, every year in the UK one in nine people move house. I don’t know if that’s one in nine households on the move or one in nine individuals. Either way, there’s a lot more of it going on than I realised.

I definitely have mixed feelings about the house moving experience. On one hand it’s exciting and fun looking for a new home. On the other hand it is stressful and inconvenient, particularly having strangers poking around your home.

 Ok, so I don’t mind poking around theirs, but that’s different…really it is. I imagine that other people always live in a state of readiness for the critical scrutiny of strangers at a moment’s notice. But I go through agonies of inadequacy before I leave my private space, leaving it wide open to the [probable] criticism of viewers. In my more rational moments I know that nobody really lives in a show home, but that doesn’t stop me feeling that they do. But anyway, why should I care for the opinion of strangers?

Because I want to sell my house, that’s why.

The course of true homebuying never did run smooth. When our whole recent sale and purchase collapsed like a house of cards, I knew it had been too good to be true. Things had been far too simple. So in a way we weren’t surprised or even particularly fazed. It just seemed like a nuisance to have to go through all the nosey stranger stuff again.

 But, hey! A week on and we’re sold again. Also we have found a cosy bungalow which I am trying very hard not to get emotionally involved with. Nothing is definite before the signatures are dry on the contracts, and not always then.

Meanwhile I must get on with sorting out 14 years’ worth of clutter and getting rid of excess furniture and stuff. I mean,  do I really need three sets of single bedding when we only have double beds? And fingers crossed one of those doubles will fit into our new second bedroom…

Its no wonder that moving house is listed on the stress scale*, although it only scores 20/100 where death of a spouse scores 100 and Christmas scores 12. For some reason its not so stressful as ‘revision of personal habits’, whatever THAT means. I beg to differ on that one.

Anyway, must go and get on with list writing, decluttering and nail biting…

*Holmes and Rahe 1967

BEST FOOT FORWARD!

I’d like to talk about exercise, because I’d much rather talk about it than do it. I’d also like to talk about forming good exercise habits, but all I can tell you about that is what you probably know already.

1. Bad habits form themselves quite easily with no help from me.

2. Good habits, however, take time, effort and repetition to establish. That’s the hard bit.

Sadly though, the writing is on the wall…

I have a choice. If I just keep on doing the same things and eating the same things that I have always done in the past, I will be in trouble not far down the line. If I make certain changes, then I stand a good chance of staying mobile.

Already action is called for, so I’ve made a start. The first good habit I’ve managed to establish is a walk first thing every day. Actually I can’t claim iron will power, as I do it because I have a dog. He HAS to go for walks, whether I feel like it or not. And because I’ve been doing it for over two years, it’s become a habit, and one that I enjoy now. If for some reason I can’t do that early morning walk I really miss it.

But walking isn’t enough apparently.

Someone had a bright idea. It was the physiotherapist when we were discussing my back problems and fibromyalgia. Pilates, he said, would be the very thing. As he had ruled out running or jumping in any way, and I already walk every day, apparently the best thing to do is Pilates.

‘Me! Pilates! You must be joking’, I said. ‘But I’ve been doing my exercises every day.’

Well, most days…

Well, for the last three days…

But you can’t fool a physio. I’m sure they’re trained to look right through your soul and winkle out every last little excuse and half-truth. And they have a heart of stone when it comes to excuses. 

‘Can’t I do tai chi? That’s more me.’

‘No, you must go to the sports centre and book up some classes’, says he. I can tell from the flinty look in his eye that he knows I would rather eat coal than walk into a sports centre or go into an exercise class. The thought of a room full of bendy super women with straight backs and washboard stomachs was scary. I imagined they would all be like Barbie dolls and me a Cabbage Patch interloper.

As it turned out, I was right. But they were very nice to me, I have to say. This bunch of whippet-like females (and one brave guy) were a really good advert for Pilates. And they all seemed to know each other of course.

The first thing I did was to incorrectly identify the instructor and try to tell her about myself. Turned out she hadn’t arrived yet, although the efficient looking lady I spoke to was very helpful and told me where the mats were. Shortly afterwards the instructor burst through the doors, all energy and healthiness.

I managed to get her to stand still long enough to explain why I was there and she said just to do what I could manage. This wasn’t really a beginners class but that was ok.

An hour later I staggered out of the class feeling battered but virtuous. I had stuck it out! The instructor told me I hadn’t done too badly but I’d better stick to my physio exercises for a bit.

I rang my youngest daughter who is at uni training to be a physiotherapist. She was surprised but impressed that I’d actually done it (how well she knows me!).

‘How was it?’ She asked

‘It nearly killed me’ I answered

‘Good’ she said.

Something tells me that girl will make an excellent physio.

I haven’t given up though. I wouldn’t dare! I have an appointment with the flinty-eyed physio on Monday. I will be able to look into his laser eyes and honestly tell him I went to that class AND I do my exercises every day. 

Maybe I should try yoga...