Really, that could be the end of this blog post. It would have been, 20, 10, or even 5 years ago. Exercise was something that fit people did, because they were fit. Dur….
I get it, I really do. Eat less, move more. But when you really HATE exercise, it’s not that simple.
Why do I hate it so much? It’s a complicated, many pointed star of an answer.
Yeah. Not pretty. Also, for a fat bird, it unusually doesn’t come that easy to me. If it’s unexpectedly hot out and I’m caught in a jumper & jeans scenario that cannot be de-layered, there may be a little small-of-the-back moisture going on, but mostly I just go red.
Not pink cheeked, not English Rose, but Heart-attack red.
It’s my body’s natural state of being. From the everyday resting heart rate of rosacea, to the first glass of booze on a night out and all of the mildly embarrassing or laughing too loud moments in between.
Exercising is the worst culprit – I frequently have to reassure people who don’t know me that I am not about to collapse at the end of a class and several dog walkers have stared at me with that “I’m going to need to use my first aid knowledge from last week’s WI meeting” look in their eyes.
But it hasn’t been until fairly recently that I have really been fit enough to sweat properly – you know, where you’ve got patches like they have in the movies. I never had enough puff to be exercising for long enough to squeeze the liquid out of my pores!
Although it’s not pretty, I feel like it’s my badge of honour. Like I really have worked out, done some good, shifted a few ounces.
Dear Lord, the wobbling. If you’ve never been overweight and you’re firmly in the “fat people are lazy bastards” camp, then
a) fuck you,
b) you’re right and
c) have you ever tried running with a melon sewn onto your tummy?
I take full responsibility for my gut. It’s not fair that all my weight gathers round my middle like it’s the kitchen at a fat cell party, but that’s my cross to bear. For others it’s their bum and thighs, for some it covers them like an Ant and Dec fat suit, but for me it’s the belly all the way.
However, when you have a million stone to lose (OK, not a million, but it might as well be), the hardest thing in the world is to lace those trainers up and get your butt moving.
In a class, you’ll make a tit of yourself. In the gym, the bunnies will whisper and point at you. On the road, cars will honk their horns and shout insults. Will they? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it’s all in your head, but whether it is reality or not is irrelevant. Somehow, you have to get out there, wobble your bits around for long enough and on so many occasions that they start not to wobble so much.
That, people with no wobbly bits, is fucking tough – even if it is our fault in the first place. An alcoholic drinking orange juice in a pub would be applauded. A smoker slapping on nicotine patches would be encouraged. If you see a wobbly bits person working on getting fit – do the right thing.
COMPLETELY IGNORE US.
We’ve already made up our minds about getting out there. We’re already doing it, we’re already imagining you laughing at us and we either choose to accept it and get our heads down, or (and here is where it gets good, fellow wobblers) WE DON’T CARE ANYMORE!
Yep. I really don’t care. Mostly…OK, I do. Just don’t tell my brain.
How many fucking calories did I just NOT burn?
You’ve done it. That first Zumba class, that first step on your Couch to 5K app. And now we have the benefit of technology to let us know just how many calories we have burned. FUCK ALL. That’s how many.
Getting up, organised, into running gear, trainers on, headphones in, arm bands secured, running watches charged, water bottles filled, laces done up, laces undone again to tie your door key into them…
You’ve spent time, money and effort doing all of that exercise and the technology tells you you have burned as many calories as you could eat in 12 seconds. Bastards.
And that friends is the worst thing about exercise. If you only do it to lose weight, you’re on a hiding to nothing. You will never and I mean never, lose weight by just doing a bit of running around. You can dress it up however you like, enter races, call the classes at the gym increasingly terrifying names like “Puke” and “Death”, but unless you are doing it every day for over an hour, you cannot, I repeat cannot eat what the fuck you like and not be fat. Scientific fact.
So, I bounce along, wobbling my bits, safe in the knowledge that if I never put on my trainers again, it wouldn’t make me fat enough for an ITV documentary. I am just not devoted to it enough for it to have that much effect.
Do I come home from a run and think differently about what I put in my mouth afterwards though? The answer to that is yes. Mostly, I hate exercise soooooo much, that the thought of committing myself to doing it and then spoiling all of that effort with a hastily inhaled Dairy Milk bar, stops me in my tracks.
For some, exercise is reward in itself. There is talk of endorphines and other things that make me go, “Meh.” Am I proud of myself for getting up and doing something I don’t want to do? Yes. Do I feel good for the 2 minutes after I have finished? Yes. But only because I know I have done it, at least for today.
And then, the dread creeps in a few hours later. That chunk of pain is safely in the bag…when are you going to face the next one? When, Molly? WHEN? Because if you don’t do it tomorrow, then you have work and then clubs to ferry the kids to and then, and then, and then, and then you will not have exercised properly since CHRISTMAS…which is pretty much what happened this year.
I’d like to think that one day I will grow to love exercise. I am currently really enjoying Clubbercise – mainly because it’s mad dancing, waving a glow stick about in the dark. Nobody can see our wobbly bits – GENIUS.
But the truth of the matter is, that I am lazy. If I could get away with not doing exercise ever again, I would totally take that option. Just like if smoking had to same effect on my body as lettuce then I would be Pat Butchering it up in a second.
I lied though, because I do sort of like exercise. I like that I am doing it. I like that I am the healthiest I have ever been – not just since I was a teenager, not just since I’ve had the kids. Ever.
I like that it is a bit sociable, sometimes. I like that I can run about with the kids now and whilst they can definitely catch me, there is a little bit of plot action before the story is over.
I like that I can do something physical that my husband can’t. Apart from have babies, that is. He doesn’t run. Nope. Weights, punch bag, skipping – yes. Running – no. I’m sure he could if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t, so I am taking the win.
I’m off for a run now. Don’t laugh at my wobbly bits if you see me. The kids do that enough for all of us…