Ninja Training

“I thought you said you were going to become a ninja?”  asks hubby.

With alternating three-month blocks of locumming and childcare, my life is neatly split into chapters.  This means I’m always reiventing my goals:  I have more fresh starts than Miranda and Gary.

A childcare chapter is just beginning and the search has begun for something physical I can work on while supervising a Toddler and a Tiddler.  Hubby, as ever, is full of answers:

‘I thought you said you were going to become a Ninja.’

But what constitutes a ninja – exactly?  I didn’t really mean that I was going to join the medieval Japanese mercenary (although I’m sure I’d have blended right in).  Neither does modern-day martial art appeal: I’m a hippy at heart.

Yes, I hear what you say.  But Ninja’s such a cool word.  Perhaps I could just redefine it to mean someone who looks good in a cat-suit?

No, wait…..

Maybe just someone who feels fit?  Who ripples as they walk around?  (I, for the record, have occasionally been fit after mountain walks, but never in my life have I rippled).

And of course, when I was fit I didn’t ‘feel’ fit.  I suspect I’m someone who takes any fitness I have for granted and concentrates on the fact that I’m not fitter.

The problem I am leading to, of course, is that there’s no objective goal here.  How would I identify that I had reached ‘Ninjadom’ even if I ever got there?

But there’s no point worrying about the finer details.  It’s the start of June, hubby’s about to leave and nobody’s come up with a better idea.

Ninjadom it is.

On Facebook there’s a thing called the June Abs Challenge.  I click, because Ninjas probably need good abs.

I see a guy who might be South African or Australian or from somewhere else in the world entirely, who is so busy pumping iron that he doesn’t do any gardening.  You can see the dandilions pushing out between the flags on his backyard.  He has set up a Facebook event involving the mass performance of a 30-day abs workout.

Like the Personal-Trainer stereotype in my head, he is warm and likable but talks downwards.  He tells me unequivocally that I need to use a yoga-mat if I do my exercises outside, then neglects to use one himself.  ‘I don’t use one down to personal preference,’ he mutters at one point, to show that as an immortal soul his own rules don’t apply to him.

Then he apologises for his ‘form’ in the sit-ups, adding that he never does sit-ups himself.

What is this?!?!  And yet you want me to do hundreds of the bloody things?

Then again, he probably does one-armed leg-raises on the monkey-bars or something instead.  And he isn’t asking me for any money.

I decide that I can probably once again put up with being a pu- pu- punt- p- punt-arrrghh!


One sit-up completed.  Nobody saw me tugging on the weeds coming up from between the flagstones of my patio there, did they?

Oh good.  So how many more of these things do I have to do, then?  Gotta say; the ground’s really hard around here.  I could do with a yoga-mat or something.

Anyway; day three.  I’m sticking with it.  I have an extremely tidy lounge (I have to clear the kids’ train-track and Duplo away every time I want to exercsie in my own living room).

Yes, I hear what you say.  It is high summer and life should be full of opportunities to exercise outside.  But not so.  My garden is horrifically sloping, making sit-ups either very hard or very easy.  And when I tried to do my challenge at the play-park, the planks ruined the whole thing.

That is, the wobbly planks that the kids walk on:  one of them’s on a pivot they kept needing me to get up and hold their hands as they walked along it.  I would like to say that they also walked along my planks, but –

Yeah.  I’m sure you don’t need me to describe the pile of Tiddler and Toddler on top of a very flat Mummy on the floor.

Then there were the three young guys with six-packs who kept balance-walking around the top of the fence around the playpark.  Climbers, I suspect.  When they turned up, I prosponed the whole project until after kiddy bedtime.

Yes, yes.  I hear what you’re thinking: a ninja wouldn’t care about what other people thought about them.

But you know something?  Becoming a Ninja probably takes time.


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