July 4, 2014

Run Fat Girl, Run

Anyone’s news feed beginning to look a little like this?:

Friday: Your fit friend is fundraising for their third marathon!
Saturday: All of your remaining friends and acquaintances are preparing for a 10k!
Sunday: A local pig has just completed his first 5k.

That’s right, everyone but YOU.

Before I go any further, I wish to firstly clarify how proud I am of my health conscious friends and salute their speedy endeavours. I genuinely believe completing a race is a laudable achievement and any following comments are clearly derived from insane jealousy.

So apparently, the Celtic cheetah era has long since dawned and everyone is currently running for their lives. It’s like the new going out. We don’t check ourselves in at pubs any more, we check ourselves in at pit stops and finishing lines. In my current neighbourhood, everybody seems to be constantly jogging. ALL THE TIME. It has reached such a point where I feel completely out of place simply walking to the shop. I am convinced that the Lycra-clad brigade must be jeering at me. Why would a bird walk when they can fly?!

I am engaged in an ongoing feud with my significant other over the contentious issue that is the couple joint workout. While I agree that a fellow jogger can be excellent inspiration, I am determined to continue vetoing his suggestion. Multi-tasking is a skill attributed to the female species, but I am not convinced that we have mastered trying to effectively breathe and look like a seductive kitten all at once. At least I certainly haven’t. It’s bad enough worrying that the Lycra brigade think I’m hideous, I don’t want him glancing over only to realise that yes, he is indeed betrothed to a warthog.

It is not that I haven’t attempted the sport. It is not that I don’t understand the benefits. And it is not sheer laziness. OK, some of it is, but more so than anything else, it’s just not my thing. I have been told that I will learn to love it and maybe I just never reached that breakthrough moment, but in my opinion, exercise should be at least slightly enjoyable. If I dread it more than dental visits and the eventual apocalypse, it probably won’t make the cut for my weekly routine.

That said, I would like to find an alternative so I won’t end up like Gilbert Grape’s mother. If I stopped raiding Penney’s every week, I could probably afford gym membership. Maybe I could get back into swimming? By swimming of course I mean thrashing about in the slow lane trying to remember to move my legs and praying a boob doesn’t pop out. Failing that, I could partake in the latest vogue exercise class. I just need to pace myself, keep a steady attendance record and not applaud myself too quickly. I did about five Zumba classes last year and thought I was Jennifer Lopez.

They say never say never so I won’t rule anything out just yet. That doesn’t necessarily mean I will enter the next Ironman Triathlon, but I might just walk to work tomorrow. The fact that there are road works outside my apartment and the bus route is temporarily diverted is purely coincidental.