Blimey! How I accidentally got abs in my 40s

It worked fine for me – I slinked about through my early-30s as a UK dress size 6/8, perpetually ignoring bread baskets, ordering the salad in pizza restaurants, and adhering to the theory (popular circa 2002) that instructed us to eat until we were 80 per cent full, then stop. But then I reached 35, and my back went.

Years crouched over a laptop,  my spine curved forward, shoulders cranked up towards my ears, my entire body tensed against yet another deadline. So one moment I was fine, erect, with a functioning spine, the next – having tripped ever-so-slightly over a paving stone – my lower back spasmed like a collapsed concertina.

I screamed, spent 48 hours hobbling around like Gollum and mainlining Nurofen, then coughed up £60 for a physio. He massaged me, manipulated me, gave me a lecture about desk posture, and told me to take up Pilates. ‘I will!’ I swore. I really meant it.

I had no idea what Pilates was, but the memory of  the back pain was fresh enough to make me commit to pretty much anything anyone said might help. But the pain-memory faded, I didn’t take up Pilates; and so it was that, six months later, my back went again. I visited another physio, who also told me to take up Pilates. ‘I will!’ I said. Only, guess what? I didn’t.

Five years passed like this; my back spasming and collapsing on a biannual basis. I kept going to assorted physios, and then not going to Pilates. Until, aged 41, my lower spine exploded into a white-hot pain-ball because I’d had the audacity to try and disconnect a plug from a low-lying socket one slightly frosty morning…  And I took up Pilates, like everyone had always said I should. I knew nothing about it.

I had a vague idea it was probably something like yoga (it isn’t), and a firmer idea that a lot of the most-honed Hollywood stars credited it as ground zero on their spectacular bodies (it was, let’s face it, probably this that convinced me to follow up on all the promises I’d made to my physios).

I got a class recommendation from a friend of a friend; the studio was a) cheap,  b) unintimidating and c) close to my house. Off I trotted one momentous evening, up  an alley in an unprepossessing bit of north London, dressed in the raggy tracksuit bottoms I usually saved for bed on cold days, and an elderly American Apparel vest top.  I arranged myself on a mat at the back and the class began.

It turns out that Pilates is a series of small, precise movements that use the body’s own weight to strengthen postural muscles – essentially, the abdominals and the gluteals – so that your spine is bolstered by them, protected from the sort of abuse visited upon it by years of sedentary desk work and lounging about on a sofa watching Netflix. 

It was developed in New York in the 1930s by a German personal trainer called Joseph Pilates and became very popular among the ballerinas of Manhattan. Pilates (who died aged 83 in 1967, presumably with excellent posture) was given to inspirational quotes, among them: ‘In 10 sessions, you’ll feel the difference, in 20, you’ll see the difference, and in 30, you’ll have a new body.’

God, I hate that sort of thing. Only, guess what? Joseph Pilates was right. I did. I have.  Pilates is weird. It seems obscure when you first attempt it, confusingly subtle to anyone who associates exercise with big movements. You twist this way, and that;  you plant your feet on the floor and pulse your pelvis upwards. You roll down, you roll up; you lie on one side and ‘clam-shell’ your legs apart.

Contracting your pelvic floor is a crucial aspect to the practice, and it’s tough to know if you’re doing that right. Your teacher can hardly check; only encourage you with awkward references to ‘the muscles  you use when you’re bursting for a pee’.

Despite this, I left that first class knowing  I had just done something necessary for my back – it felt looser, more comfortable – and also, filled with the indefinable feeling I might actually be able to get good at this.  So I kept going. Just that one, weekly class up a backstreet. Not a huge commitment, or a huge intrusion into my life, and £9 a pop.

A couple of months after I started – months during which I hadn’t felt so much as a twinge in my back, hooray! – I found myself stripped down to my underwear in a Zara changing room, about to try on a dress,  when the light caught my stomach.

‘Bloody hell,’ I thought. ‘What’s that groove down the left side of my stomach?’ I twisted the other way. ‘And that corresponding one, down the right?’  I twisted again, and again. Could it actually be…? No! Surely not! But, then, what else was I looking at? Not really knowing what else to do, and this being the 21st century,  I resorted to the narcissist’s favourite enabling tool; I reached for my phone and snapped a pic of my reflection.

I looked and  I looked at the photograph. There didn’t seem to be any question. I had the faintest suspicion of what could really only be described as abs. Ridiculously encouraged, I upped my Pilates schedule to two classes a week.  I switched the raggy track pants for some fancy-schmanzy Sweaty Betty Lycra as an expression of my commitment.

I got put up a level, from beginners Pilates to intermediates; then on to advanced.  I went on a Pilates retreat. I was hooked. Then I started seeing Pilates instructor Alex Coleman – aka London’s abs queen –  for one-on-one sessions on the reformer machine, a terrifying-looking contraption that adds springs, weights, and additional tests to your Pilates session.

It’s expensive, at £70 a go it’s my greatest weekly luxury; but it is worth it. I call it a pension for my spine. And my abs really appreciate it. As they have got stronger and more defined, I wondered to what extent I can show them off. My boyfriend is the only person who sees them regularly, and he’s not given to compliments.

Could I justify taking my abs to a bigger audience? Could I really wear a crop top with the same ‘so what?’ carelessness with which I might wear a low-cut top, or a short skirt? Isn’t that sort of thing really only for teenagers?  On the one hand, my abs are nothing more than the happy side effect of me finally sorting out long-term back problems; a nice little extra, but not the main event, and nowt to brag about.

On the other hand –  I want to brag about them. I am proud of them. They’re hard-earned. On top of two Pilates classes a week, I have added a yoga class and a giddy hour of boxing training.  I had no idea I could gain muscle tone like this. Also: abs are potent.

Unlike your more traditional erogenous zones – boobs, bum, a nicely turned ankle – they come with a degree of threat, a suggestion of power. The first time I did risk a cropped T-shirt – two years or so into my Pilates venture – a guy walked passed me  and said, ‘Good abs!’ Catcalling, yes; but catcalling with a side order of respect.

A month ago, when I went on holiday,  I popped an experimental shot of myself  in a bikini on Instagram. It was the first  time I’d done such a thing. My comments exploded. People were surprised, impressed, appalled (‘Show off!’ ‘Put it away!’ et cetera). Some wanted to know what I was doing to look like this (‘Exactly what, where, and how many times a week?’).

Others voted with their feet, and unfollowed me. I lost about 50 followers for every abs picture I posted. Like I said, abdominal muscles are potent: people respond to them, one  way or another.  I guess I’ll keep them covered up from here on, maybe take them out only on special occasions.

Apart from anything else: it’s getting chillier. Right now, as I type, my  abs are nestling under my shirt like a  good secret. They make me feel strong, emotionally, as well as physically. Makes sense, really. They’re my guts, after all.