Painful promises made to my younger self
"Darling, we're going to be forty next year...." said my handsome, youthful and smirky gay friend last week. It's a very confronting statement when you've been running from the graceless truth for several years; running to every voucher-ridden "ageless" clinic the internet offers in my locale. Gahhh!!
Just 17 months shy of this significant birthday, I vaguely recalled that I committed to the cosmos I would run a half-marathon before I reach that mystical birthday.
What a truly ill-considered moment that was.
I wonder if wine was involved? It's likely...
So I packed, puffed and squeezed my cheese-lovin' booty into my Lorna Jane's and scooted to the gym (ok, I drove at a relaxed pace, sipping a skinny capp en route). I knew I would NAIL IT today.
I had the gym to myself, this being Sunday and all, and everyone else was clearly off to church or sleeping in. Not me! I had a GOAL. I had THINGS TO DO.
The first running track had to be Eminem, because this was angry, fiercesome, calorie-burning stuff. I got the tready prepped for a "Fat Burning Workout". God, I would be smokin' hot by the end of this session. Oh yes. Ready. Set. Go!!
A little warm-up walk. Not too bad.
Put on a little speed. Half-marathon? Oh yeah baby.
A little sweat now. Gosh I am working hard. Puff, puff, puff.
10 excruciating minutes later I am bored. Bored witless. Oh my God. SO BORED.
Switch to INXS and a slow-jog. MUCH better.
"Elegantly Wasted"; such a smooth track...although "inelegantly-waisted" might be a better description of the body-bountiful today. Sigh!
Watching the world drive by out the window in front of me, EIGHT (!!) L-platers turned a precarious corner, perhaps fearful that the great, shaggy pine tree marking the plaza would "frond"-forth upon them, destroying their driving opportunities for life. Amusing.
Lots of fit-looking, swishy-haired, glossy-legged girls whose vein-free chiseled calves have clearly never seen a hostie's roster full of longhaul, daylight flights from Sydney to Johannesburg, sauntered into the cool gym next door. I wish I were one of those swishy-haired girls.
One guy came in and stood in front of the mirror and free-weights for a while. Then he did some "man-stuff" on his iPhone (What do blokes do on their phones??? Is it a protective device? They're all glued). Then he left. Seriously.
And it dawned on me...the hardest part of getting fit (for the totally unmotivated types like myself) is actually putting the gear on and walking through the door. Once I've done that, I may as well stay and plug my headphones in. What the heck, I may as well sit on the bike for five minutes. Pace the treadmill. Do weird contortionist things on the cross-trainer. Plug into my favourite tunes and just burn a few calories. No one minds if I sing out loud, right?
Just 17 months shy of this significant birthday, I vaguely recalled that I committed to the cosmos I would run a half-marathon before I reach that mystical birthday.
What a truly ill-considered moment that was.
I wonder if wine was involved? It's likely...
So I packed, puffed and squeezed my cheese-lovin' booty into my Lorna Jane's and scooted to the gym (ok, I drove at a relaxed pace, sipping a skinny capp en route). I knew I would NAIL IT today.
I had the gym to myself, this being Sunday and all, and everyone else was clearly off to church or sleeping in. Not me! I had a GOAL. I had THINGS TO DO.
The first running track had to be Eminem, because this was angry, fiercesome, calorie-burning stuff. I got the tready prepped for a "Fat Burning Workout". God, I would be smokin' hot by the end of this session. Oh yes. Ready. Set. Go!!
A little warm-up walk. Not too bad.
Put on a little speed. Half-marathon? Oh yeah baby.
A little sweat now. Gosh I am working hard. Puff, puff, puff.
10 excruciating minutes later I am bored. Bored witless. Oh my God. SO BORED.
Switch to INXS and a slow-jog. MUCH better.
"Elegantly Wasted"; such a smooth track...although "inelegantly-waisted" might be a better description of the body-bountiful today. Sigh!
Watching the world drive by out the window in front of me, EIGHT (!!) L-platers turned a precarious corner, perhaps fearful that the great, shaggy pine tree marking the plaza would "frond"-forth upon them, destroying their driving opportunities for life. Amusing.
Lots of fit-looking, swishy-haired, glossy-legged girls whose vein-free chiseled calves have clearly never seen a hostie's roster full of longhaul, daylight flights from Sydney to Johannesburg, sauntered into the cool gym next door. I wish I were one of those swishy-haired girls.
One guy came in and stood in front of the mirror and free-weights for a while. Then he did some "man-stuff" on his iPhone (What do blokes do on their phones??? Is it a protective device? They're all glued). Then he left. Seriously.
And it dawned on me...the hardest part of getting fit (for the totally unmotivated types like myself) is actually putting the gear on and walking through the door. Once I've done that, I may as well stay and plug my headphones in. What the heck, I may as well sit on the bike for five minutes. Pace the treadmill. Do weird contortionist things on the cross-trainer. Plug into my favourite tunes and just burn a few calories. No one minds if I sing out loud, right?
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ReplyDeleteHave you considered moving to France. It's where you cross into the third dimension eat cheese, drink wine and stay thin without a gym membership. It's magic. Beware though of the German border. No matter how tempting it seems it could be your Wurst mistake.
I do think that the root of your problem lies in song choice. M&Ms In Excess should be replaced with Black Eyed Pies followed by Cranberries. Let me know how you go.
I think I need to make the Wurst mistake....
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