As I contemplate another birthday in a few months and ask myself for the umpteenth time, “when did that happen?”, I’ve decided it’s time to think about getting fit.
Again.
Because, before you send in your congratulations on making a life-changing decision, I need to tell you I have decided to think about getting fit many, many times before. In my limited defence, I have actually achieved it twice in my life from a standing start, at 23 and 40, before letting myself go again.
The phrase, ‘letting oneself go’ always reminds me of the slogan on the back of a bus ticket. Remember those? It said “Before you let yourself go, make sure you can get yourself back again.” That’s the hard part, which is why thinking about doing something about getting fit is much more comforting, even satisfying, than actually doing it.
A lack of motivation, a lack of time, cold weather, overtime, aches and pains, wrong shoes, Uber driving kids, Netflix, any excuse is a good one. To put it in practical terms, there’s much more satisfaction in imagining yourself with the body or level of fitness you want than actually dragging yourself out of bed on a cold winter morning, pulling on a trackie and going for a run in the drizzle. Did I say run? Kidding. I won’t run for a bus, not even one that’s 20 metres away, waiting at the stop with the driver rolling out a red carpet and giving away cash to the next passenger. I used to joke about it until recently, there really was a bus I could have run for but thought “nah, there’ll be another one along soon enough”. Yes, even with Adelaide’s public transport.
The problem with making these declarations of fitness to myself is timing. Usually, the motivation strikes when I’m eating something delicious, perhaps one of the four Ps. You may be familiar with pizzas, pies, pancakes and pastries. Professionals tell me eating and not a lack of exercise is 80 per cent of the problem and the old adage, if it tastes good – spit it out, should apply.
I’ve found when this fitness madness hits, if I don’t panic and give it 10 minutes, the mood will pass and thankfully it always has before a rush of blood has me signing up to yet another gym membership I won’t use or ordering an exercise machine to stop the dust from reaching the floor.
The passing years have at least brought the wisdom that as well-intentioned as I am, the discipline to follow through is sadly – or perhaps pleasantly – lacking.
But I’m now at the age where the reality is exercise must consist of more than adjusting the recliner or lifting a long black to sip over a newspaper and a croissant. (I’ll miss you, my curvy French friends.)
But a gym? Not a chance. Long, brisk walks? That’s more my speed and this being Adelaide, any route is likely to include a cafe along the way.
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