Wednesday, April 17, 2013

To Yog or Not to Yog

My relationship with exercise has always been strained. I don't like sports, I lack the basic coordination required to throw, catch or hit anything, least of all while running. For the first eight years of my life I suffered more sprained ankles than I had hot dinners. The slightest variation in terrain and I hit the deck faster than my plummeting street cred on the playground. When I wasn't falling over I was sitting on the sidelines with icepacks on my thumbs, which turned out to be double jointed and prone to popping out of place when they made contact with a ball.

I tried netball, hockey, softball, orienteering (to be fair, I failed at this not only because I can't read a map, but also because I didn't really give a shit.) Finally I settled on the most dainty of sports, badminton, and despite spending every practice sitting under the stands eating chocolate, we won a championship.

I've had several gym memberships, one of which I continued to pay for long after I stopped going, because to cancel it they made you go in to sign the forms in person. Which I imagine is their genius deterrent because like me, most people want to avoid having to see their chiseled abs and the looks of disapproval on their faces.

This year I have tried to turn over a new leaf, more out of necessity than anything else. As it turns out, working 70 hours a week on your feet burns a lot of calories, so for the past three years just doing my job has been sufficient to keep the bulge at bay. Now I'm writing, I spend a lot of time sitting in my sunny kitchen drinking too much coffee and, inevitably, eating a lot of Tim Tams. It's not really shocking my leather pants are protesting when I put them on. 

To combat this newly sedentary lifestyle, I decided to start jogging. I've always been keen on the idea of running, but my pathetic ankles require quality trainers, and my never smaller than a D cup breasts need industrial strength support. Spending money on these things is a bit like getting your car serviced. You know you have to do it, but you put it off until you start to worry you might break down. My increasing girth told me I was probably going to break down some time soon, the time had come to spend the money and get my lazy ass out of the house.

It's interesting how we change over time. Once upon a time you couldn't have paid me enough to exercise. I remember my one and only personal training session, I whinged and complained so badly, the guy didn't even bother to try and sell me more. I'm certainly not saying I now spring out of bed every morning and go for a brisk jog, but I have started to look forward to my 45 minute run on my days off.

On Skype to Soph the other day when she heard of my new lease on life, her response was 'I feel like I don't even know you anymore.' She then went on to tell me 'I went for a jog...the other month. There were old ladies running faster than me, I thought I was going to cough up blood.'

She's 25. Four years ago when I was on the verge of 25, if you'd told me I would enjoy exercise I would have laughed in your face. But then of course the joke would have been on me, because I never expected to get cellulite either. You live and learn. At least I got in 28 good, lazy years.

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