Underground Fitness Review

The Postmodern Mammy

And there I sat in my car outside the gym. Sad fat mammy. Two children later and trying to garner enough strength to step away from the spoon and stop crying into the ice cream. It wasn’t my fault. I had already gone to the trouble of sneaking it upstairs and hiding in the bathtub. Or as I like to call it, the last refuge. And they were still knocking on the door.

But this story has a happy ending. Really bothered by the fact that I had a hole in my abs that I could fit my whole fist into after my second child made an appearance in the world, I finally plucked up the courage to do something about it. Something drastic. Having been prevented from my lonely plod around by the park by increasingly creaking knees, I needed something low impact. I needed something to finally get…

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