Exercise(n): Self-inflicted torture

>If you read through my blog (go on… I’ll wait for you to get back) you’ll notice a trend whereby every once in a while I make mention of my complete and utter disdain of all physical activity (except drinking, eating and sex).

Sure, sure… every now and then I’ll flirt dangerously close to something that vaguely resembles exercise, but I’m always quick to scurry away from it again, lest it becomes some sort of grotesque habit that I bore people in the pub chatting about.


The very idea that I might talk to people in the pub about exercising already goes to show that I’ll ever get freakishly attached to doing it.


It isn’t that I don’t want the benefits that exercise can bring; I do. I want more energy. I want to sleep better. I want to wear a pair of jeans that doesn’t contain so much material that it could be used as a tarpaulin shelter for a nomadic family of twelve. But I want those benefits without earning them. I want them to just magically happen for me.

Somehow I don’t think I’m going to win this one.

So, I’ve been playing with my Wii now and then and calling it ‘exercise’. But after the crotch agony of a week and a half ago, I’ve been terrified of doing anything other than the little balancing games that I know won’t cause me grievous bodily harm.

I’ve toyed with the idea of actually exercising after I get home from work. But the 45 minute bus ride actually zaps my will to live and leaves me with little energy to do anything more physical than lay on the couch with a beer and contemplate life until my flatmate finishes making dinner.


Can you even imagine how wonderful it is to go from living with people who manage to get poop on the wall to someone who cooks me freaking dinner?


So after work is out of the equation. And I didn’t even think about exercising before work… I get up early enough as it is. So what’s a girl to do?

Well, I’ve started doing yoga at work on Wednesdays. It is free and I thought it would help me get some of my flexibility back. Which it might. Once I can walk away from a session not bent over from agony and exhaustion, it might. Nah, it’s good. The class is small and the instructor is rad. She’s willing to push us and I’m willing to be pushed. My back and legs are sore but in a good way (although I still plan on complaining about it).

The other thing I’ve started doing is far more mental and even I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea. Because I’m too tired after riding the bus home to do any exercise… I’ve decided to forgo the bus home.

I’ve started walking (with a wee bit of running) home. What’s kinda daunting about it is the distance – 6.7 miles. Yikes. Yikes on a bun.

But I do get to run (walk) through Richmond Park, which is gorgeous. And full of deer. It is vaguely surreal to look past a dozen deer in a grassy field and see the Millennium Eye, The Gherkin and Canary Wharf.

Tonight is the third night I’m gonna do it, and at the moment I’m pretty stinking proud of myself. I’m still tired when I get home, and I probably look like a dork, trying to run (usually in the rain) after having not done so in 100 years and with my wee backpack on. But I guess the good thing is that I’m doing it.

I’ll let you know how long this one lasts. Right now I’m focusing on closing out the week.

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