There’s no way to sugarcoat how I feel about exercise: I hate it. I’ve seen avid runners, pumped-up weightlifters, yoga enthusiasts, happy golfers, and other insane people talk about how exercise can be fun if you find the one physical fitness activity you can truly get passionate about. I’ve tried many, many things. The only thing I am passionate about is my hatred for all things remotely resembling exercise.
Part of this is hereditary. I come from a long line of women who hate exercising. My mother, her mother before her . . . one of my fondest memories of my maternal grandmother is when she rented a wheelchair at Disney World because “Why walk around the park when you can ride? We are here for the rides, aren’t we?” Darn straight we are, Grandma. (Plus, as an added bonus, we got to line hop because of Grandma’s “handicap.”)
But sadly, the only thing I’ve found that works to snap the faithful dieter out of a plateau and back on the losing weight train is exercise. Over my lifetime, I’ve owned the following:
• An exercise bike
• A weightlifting bench and weights
• A yoga mat
• A tai chi DVD series (unopened)
• Nunchucks
• An exercise ball
• Stretchy elastic things
And over my lifetime, the exercise I’ve found I can do with any regularity is as follows:
• Walking while reading a book
Now before you start yelling at me about how dangerous this is, let me assure you: walking is a miserable activity. The only way I’m going to do it is if I have a book to entertain me. And if I’m hit by a truck while doing it, well, at least the misery of exercising is over, right?
I figure walking while reading encompasses the best of all physical fitness regimes: if I need to build my upper arm strength, I carry a heavy hardcover. If I want the thrill that comes with skydiving, I walk in the woods, where I’m more likely to trip or step on a snake because I’m not paying attention. And the peace of mind that those yoga nuts always talk about is just as easily achieved by a feel-good chapter of Augusten Burroughs.
I can’t say the people around me are quite so enthusiastic about my activity of choice. Jason hates it that I do this, because blah blah blah dangerous. My coworkers are tired of me bumping into them (I tend to read/walk on my break). And the trucks that have mercifully slammed on their breaks when I’ve stepped in front of them sometimes have some colorful expletives to share.
Here’s the thing: I’m exercising. Isn’t that enough?
Part of this is hereditary. I come from a long line of women who hate exercising. My mother, her mother before her . . . one of my fondest memories of my maternal grandmother is when she rented a wheelchair at Disney World because “Why walk around the park when you can ride? We are here for the rides, aren’t we?” Darn straight we are, Grandma. (Plus, as an added bonus, we got to line hop because of Grandma’s “handicap.”)
But sadly, the only thing I’ve found that works to snap the faithful dieter out of a plateau and back on the losing weight train is exercise. Over my lifetime, I’ve owned the following:
• An exercise bike
• A weightlifting bench and weights
• A yoga mat
• A tai chi DVD series (unopened)
• Nunchucks
• An exercise ball
• Stretchy elastic things
And over my lifetime, the exercise I’ve found I can do with any regularity is as follows:
• Walking while reading a book
Now before you start yelling at me about how dangerous this is, let me assure you: walking is a miserable activity. The only way I’m going to do it is if I have a book to entertain me. And if I’m hit by a truck while doing it, well, at least the misery of exercising is over, right?
I figure walking while reading encompasses the best of all physical fitness regimes: if I need to build my upper arm strength, I carry a heavy hardcover. If I want the thrill that comes with skydiving, I walk in the woods, where I’m more likely to trip or step on a snake because I’m not paying attention. And the peace of mind that those yoga nuts always talk about is just as easily achieved by a feel-good chapter of Augusten Burroughs.
I can’t say the people around me are quite so enthusiastic about my activity of choice. Jason hates it that I do this, because blah blah blah dangerous. My coworkers are tired of me bumping into them (I tend to read/walk on my break). And the trucks that have mercifully slammed on their breaks when I’ve stepped in front of them sometimes have some colorful expletives to share.
Here’s the thing: I’m exercising. Isn’t that enough?
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