People who know me, know me as a fitness machine. Of course by this I mean, much like a treadmill, I remain in one spot whilst others exercise. And occasionally beep.
This aside however, I have recently (and by recently, I mean sporadically over the last few years) tried to build up some semblance of exercise tolerance, as a) I don't want to be a dirty filthy hypocrite, and b) I don't want to drop dead at 30.
There are numerous ways I've gone about this. My personal favourite is to declare small bits of extra exertion as "exercise". Forgot what I stood up and went into another room for? Two points for the extra unnecessary double trip. Friend didn't hear me call out to them (loudly, across a small but full-ish room)? One exercise point for the mini jog to catch up to them, and nine for the calories burnt off with the embarrassment of witnessed rejection.*
The second approach I've taken is a lot less attractive (on multiple levels). It involves actual exercise, and doesn't happen very often for a multitude of reasons. At the heart of the problem is that I'm really, truly, terribly unfit. However, I have a grain of pride, which means I do not want other people to know this.** This combination of factors has pushed me into a corner where the place I go to run is a small room with one treadmill, one bike, one elliptical and is apparently where all mirrors go to die. There is a mirror in front, behind, and to the side, so that whenever I run, I'm always running in a marathon of n00bs - some of whom are going the wrong way, and all of whom look sheepish."
This semi 70s porno fishbowl of embarrassment is also located directly adjacent to a pool. This has benefits in that my paranoia gets a workout when I become convinced that the swimmers (usually couples or disquietingly oily-looking men) are watching and judging me, whilst in actual fact they are probably just hoping that I will leave so they can play jenga or roll in butter.
It is hard enough to make myself exercise. For one, I don't know what to wear. I can't wear "proper sports clothes" lest people think I'm actually fit, thus potentially giving them a laughter/shock induced aneurysm when they witness my flailing limbs and general suffering. This results in me turning up looking like I'm slightly too late to an 80s aerobics class...for men. There's also the apparent conflict in technology of the treadmill in the room of awkward. On the one hand, apparently some people are so fit and strong they can't help but punch through the flimsy button which increases the speed, thus giving all subsequent users a one in three chance of a slight electric shock whenever they dare touch it. Then, there is the unnecessarily rocket-like complexity of the controls. You want to just see how long you've been running, and have the option to change the speed? All of a sudden the incline is increasing and the screen screams at you to "touch the pulse bar."
I will not be touching the pulse bar. Not just because it makes my inner 12 year old want to shout "that's what she said", but because (probably the same fit and strong) someone decided that it would be a good idea to fling their sweat everywhere. Hot.
*:(
**evidenced well by my writing about it on the internet.
