Body Language

Today I had to give my fifth speech for Toastmasters International, a club for learning to become a better public speaker. I had it all planned and prepared, and then this morning, over a cup of coffee, I opened the guide book to check I had everything covered.

Speech Five was entitled “Your Body Speaks”. I was to use stance, body movements and gestures to convey my message, and movement should be smooth and natural. Well, I thought, I can’t do it. Why not? Because I have been crippled by my personal trainer and body language is beyond me. It’s all I can do to stand up straight.

So, you probably need to know a bit more about me. I am a pretender. As in: ‘pretending to be Australian.’ As you probably know, all Australians love sport. My family did. My parents still play tennis every week. My brothers kicked footies and swung cricket bats. My sister played everything and still travels everywhere by bicycle. They watched cricket all summer and Aussie Rules all winter, even if it meant taking it in turns to prop up the coat hanger that doubled as a TV aerial.

I didn’t. I hated cricket and rugby and badminton and horse racing and snooker and soccer and swimming… although I have to admit, I do enjoy watching my sons play basketball. I play really bad tennis as rarely as possible. I don’t like exercising. I loathe sweating. I am not even an armchair sportswoman. I read books. I like Scrabble.

Once I had removed myself from the school netball team (totally feeble, no stamina and I hate bashing frozen fingers on the ball) my only exercise was riding to school. Two whole blocks. And that was simply to disguise the fact that our puppy had eaten my school hat. Both of them, summer and winter. And they were too expensive to be replaced just for Milly to chew them up again.

I continued to ride my bike until I left Australia. Not for the exercise I hasten to add, but because they were the only wheels I had. For years, this minimalist approach to exercise was fine. I had a fantastic metabolism. I could eat anything and everything without gaining weight. Through three pregnancies my friends laughed at the basketball on a stick. Then it all went pear-shaped. Literally.

Three kids, thirty-(late)-something-ish, and we had moved to the UK where I discovered Sainsbury’s cheese counter. My o-so-brilliant metabolism went screaming off down the aisles. I gained more weight than I care to admit. Suffice to say that one basketball had multiplied into four. Curvacious? Nope. Circular. I had lost my waist and gained huge thighs. Moving to Sydney was no help. While the rest of Australia was jogging along Bondi Beach ten times a day, I was sitting behind my computer working on my Masters and drinking too much wine.

Anyway…

I surprised myself. I was lunging, lifting, leaping, and loving it. I had the sweetest trainer: enthusiastic, energetic and encouraging. I wouldn’t say the pounds were melting off, but I was slowly toning up and discovering muscles I never knew I had. By the time I followed the boys to Manila I was looking less rotund and feeling much better. And I wanted to keep it up. I had worked too hard to want to go backwards. Our apartment block had a great gym and I found a good trainer.

But…

A year on, and I was bored. Let’s face it, gyms are boring. I took the boys to Cebu for a week. Then my trainer had a week off. I lost momentum. So, on Monday, I decided to ‘act on yesterday’s good intentions’ (Toastmaster’s saying for the week) and I hit the gym again. Or rather, it hit me.

Lunging, lifting, leaping and definitely NOT loving it! At the end of the session I nearly fell down the stairs my legs were so wobbly. Today it’s worse. My legs are stiff and sore and cannot climb stairs.  My shoulders and stomach muscles ache. I can barely raise my arms.

And they want a speech with fluid body language? Sorry, that won’t be happening. Their bodies may be able to speak. Mine is just screaming… for a massage, a bath and bed.