by Clare Taylor (Thu Aug 13, 2009)
Exercise and me. We've never had what you might call a ‘loving' relationship. I blame my
parents; I come from a family who disdained it, who spent more time sucking up
to Culture, Conversation and Plain Healthy Living than they did rolling balls
to me when I was a baby, and on receiving my school report the last thing they
bothered to check out was my mark for Physical Education.
After a couple of brief flirtations with Exercise at college
and again in my early twenties ( both of which ended at about the same time as
the relationships with the sporty blokes I was trying to impress) I forgot all
about my trainers for the next few years and ignored it completely. I spent my spare time with the sofa, and
concentrated on policing my weight with much more practical measures, like
cutting all the fat out of my diet, or forgoing food for energy shakes a couple
of days a week. This worked, for a
while, until one day a flatmate of mine who was following the same eminently
sensible regime commented on how her nails had all started breaking and her
hair had started to fall out. Hmmm. Finally, at the great age of 26, the penny
dropped. I needed to get back on good
terms with Exercise. Would it take me
back? Would it even remember my name? There was only one way to find out; I signed
up for the gym and tried to get to know it.
At first, we got on. It wasn't a natural fit (pardon the pun), but we made it work, and at
times it was even successful. But
although Exercise has always been there for me since, I'm afraid I have not
been faithful. And therein lies the
problem. This was always going to be
something of a forced marriage. Sure, I
would put the units in now and again, showing up three times a week for one,
even two months at a time. But in the
end, I was always called away by the siren lure of the sofa.
When I was younger this wasn't a problem, of course. Exercise would welcome me back whenever I
chose, not questioning where I had been, tactfully ignoring the evidence of my
sofa lifestyle, and putting me back on track until I felt secure enough to walk
away again. ‘I'm sorry' I would say, the
moment my clothes started to feel a little less tight. ‘It's not you. It's me. I just haven't got what it takes to commit. You understand...' And I would walk away without so much as a
backward glance, leaving Exercise kicking it's heels on the changing room bench
and no doubt thinking ‘She'll be back. I
know it. She can't live without me.' And of course that would turn out to be
true. Sooner or later I'd be hunting for
that locker-room padlock in the bottom of my rucksack and scampering back to
the treadmill, asking Exercise sadly if I could still cut it, if I still had
what it takes.
The problem is, as I've got older, Exercise has started to
get a little more standoffish. It takes longer to deliver. I have to work
harder. If I ignore it - even if only for a couple of weeks - it gets all antsy
and gives me a really hard time when I pay it attention again. ‘Where have you
been?' it asks. ‘Holiday, huh? That's no excuse. Don't think you can just ignore me and get
all pally with that sunbed by the pool whilst you're away. We both know that's just a sofa by another
name. You know what your problem is? You
just won't commit...'
What can I say? Exercise
was right. But last summer things changed. On returning from holiday I wondered
who the porktastic housewife in the photos was, and renewed my vows. ‘I promise.' I told it. ‘I promise I won't ignore you again. Three times a week. For
a year, at least. I promise!' ‘We'll see' Exercise replied haughtily. ‘I'm
not sure I believe you. I'm not even sure it will be enough to repair all the
damage you've done...' ‘Just let me try'
I begged. ‘I can do it! I know I can!'
Well, dear reader, here I am. A year down the road. 156 gym
visits (give or take a virus or two) under my still considerable belt. And
guess what?
I'm still the same bloody weight I was when I got back from
that holiday last summer.
Perhaps I should have paid Diet some attention at the same
time?
