I’m in a situationship.

I’m in a situationship. In an exclusive relationship with only one woman. I am exclusively hers but she is seeing other people. Today marks our one year anniversary.

Exercise has always been something other people do. Or rather it’s something other people enjoy. I have neither done it nor enjoyed it. For me, exercise has only ever meant one of two things: PE and weight loss.

I was disregarded from sport very early on. I was 8 years old when disappointed PE teachers decided I was a hopeless case. I couldn’t catch a ball, didn’t like running and looked awful in shorts. For cross country I stood and pointed to show the runners which way to go. When we played hockey at school I would always be goal keeper because it took a good 10 minutes to put on the protective pads and you mostly stood still for the entire game.

I once I forgot my PE kit and had to go through lost property where the only thing was an impossibly small pair of blue shorts which I had to wear and the boys sniggered at me and I wanted to dissolve into the floor.

When I was around 13 my Dad took us to the gym on Saturdays. The gym was an exciting new concept full of complicated machines, TVs blasting music channels and a smoothie bar. This was the 00s so all music videos had women with washboard stomachs, perfect thighs and deep dark tans. I was chubby and pale with a fondness for hair crimping.

There was a teenage class where we had to take turns on a series of circuits. There was me, my sister, some boys (terrifying) and two cool girls who looked like pop stars. I still remember one of the was called Honey, a name both pretty and intimidating. Maybe they weren’t whispering about me but maybe they were.

I left school and vowed never to be on an athletics field or crash mat ever again. In my twenties I drank vodka red bull and smoked Marlboro Lights. Exercise was seeing how low you could drop to Christina Aguilera. There was a brief stint of aerobics at the leisure centre and a Clubland Workout DVD but nothing more.

Then I met Jojo, a personal trainer who remains one of my favourite people. She was kind, encouraging, endlessly positive and most of all believed in me. I saw her twice a week for two years and, for the first time in my life, I became fit. I could run and I did press ups (awful) and burpees (really awful) But when Jojo moved away and when I was back to relying on my own willpower and self-esteem I never did another mountain climber again. Three babies later and not only is my fitness bad, late night feeds and picking up toddlers means my posture is terrible. I’m full prawn.

My sister in law Steph is the closest thing I know to a gym bunny. She also loves cocktails and cheese toasties so I trust her. Last Easter we knee deep in rosé and she said the thing that had transformed her body was reformer pilates. A light flicked on inside me. This was something I could do. It looked graceful and elegant and didn’t seem to involve jumping. Also you could lie down. When a new studio opened up by the station I took it as a sign and booked a trial class for Sunday morning.

I agonised about what to wear. The ghost of Honey smirking at my cycling shorts haunted me. I thought about not going. I imagined long limbed, toned goddesses with mermaid wave hair looking me up and down. What if they were cool people there? What if they snigger? What if I’m so bad they don’t know what to do with me?

I bravely opened the door and the nicest woman I have ever met looked up at me with a beaming smile. Her hair bounced as she introduced herself and showed me how the springs worked and helped me pick some socks. We began. Lying down. I closed my eyes and felt my shoulders sink down my back. I found my core. I tilted my pelvis. Half way through the class I was enjoying it so much I thought I must not be doing it right. I must be cheating, underperforming, only pretending. I LOVED it.

I left and the nicest woman I have ever met told me it was lovely to meet me. Me, who wasn’t designed for movement, the sausage, the prawn. It was lovely to have me in the class. I came outside and booked for the following Sunday. And I’ve been back every Sunday since. Except when Meg is off because I’m completely devoted to her. My reformer pilates teacher who has made me believe I can move. And I’m worthy of moving.