Your Very Own P.E. Teacher.

So this morning I went for a ten mile run followed by five hundred crunches, an hour of push ups and some weights. I won’t tell you what I can bench because it will only serve to embarrass you. After a day at work, during which I toned with a girdle that gently electrocutes, I spent three hours at the gym, concentrating mainly on my calves and biceps, and finished with a deep muscle rub administered by a suspiciously masculine Swedish woman. No carbs, minimum calories, and almost no joy at all. Except that never happened, obviously. I don’t have the time for most of the nonsense mentioned, or the inclination for the rest. I’ll sometimes go for a run, and when the outdoor pool opens I’ll be there several times a week because I enjoy a swim. I also enjoy cake and biscuits and sitting and alcohol and pizza. Sometimes I’ll still have a cigarette, usually during the consumption of alcohol, and a pizza can often follow that. I have no idea what a calorie is, and as far as I understand it, my diet consists almost entirely of carbs.

I’m not a fatty, mind. I’m not a waif either. I would place myself towards the slimmer end of average, and I am aware that this is, in some way, down to my genes. I am predisposed to be thin, or rather to not be a whale, which is fortunate. That doesn’t mean I don’t have to worry, if I consume burgers and chips for a month I will somewhat balloon, most of the lard goes straight to my gut, while a portion heads for my face and neck, just to make sure that I can’t mask my chubbiness with loose fitting clothes. I’d have to wear a neck scarf or a paper bag, and frankly I’d rather look a bit fat. In that event do you know what I do? I eat a bit less or do a bit more, and when I’ve reset my weight or near enough, I stop giving a shit.

My peers, be they occupation or free-time based, don’t seem able to do this. They prefer to worry and suffer and hate themselves and promise they won’t have a Mars bar and then by the afternoon they have a Mars bar and a can of Coke and pretend they haven’t. It’s madness. A certain group count calories like they’re a currency they can spend on beauty. I imagine a Scrooge McDuck style vault full of calories they’ve stored away, and I see them swimming in them. In my mind. Not actually. Because that would be impossible. They talk of points accrued and plans to follow. They look at a chocolate digestive with desire and contempt. Destempt, if you will. It’s bollocks. You’re still going to die, at roughly the same time as everyone else, and what’s the point of eking out a few more years if they are to be spent doing squat thrusts, or rowing nowhere, or not having a pie. Have the pie, and if you put on a few pounds, next time, jog to the chippy.

I’m not suggesting that it’s not worth being interested in your health, or even your physical attractiveness. Of course you should want to be able to climb stairs without having to stop for a cuppa and a Jaffa Cake, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look nice, though there is a point at which ‘nice’ becomes ‘you look like you have huge ball bearings under your skin’. What I’m saying is that if you spend all your spare time buffing up and doing laps, no matter how many nuts you can crack on your washboard stomach, people are still going to think you’re a boring, joyless, narcissistic twat. Not that you are. Please don’t hit me.

I don’t really get gyms anyway. You have to pay money to do things in front of people that you could do for free on your own, and I imagine there’re things like Juice Bars or Protein Shake Dispensers and people called Gaz and Dean all sweaty and leaning over pretty girls, dribbling cress and wheatgrass smoothies over them. Some of that’s supposed rather than proved but I’m willing to take my word for it. It’s not like these places are cheap to join either, who has that much time and money? No one, that’s who. Or twats. That’s why most of the people I know who have gym memberships have been once, got a t-shirt and a water bottle, and never went again. Just having the membership card doesn’t make you fitter, it’s not that heavy. Then there’s personal trainers. Or torturers if you prefer, which I do, so I don’t. Have one, that is. You pay a stringy, lean control freak to shout at you, pretty much threaten you and generally belittle you, until you feel so bad about yourself and so guilty about your shape that you do anything they demand, just to make them stop. You’re basically paying to have your very own P.E teacher, and that’s insane. No, it’s worse than insane, it’s your very own P.E teacher. That you’ve paid for. With your money. Because you don’t really care enough to do it on your own.

Here’s an idea. If you don’t have the motivation to get on with it yourself, don’t. Have a pie. Have several pies, and if you get a bit bigger….. stop eating pies and walk to work. It’s not rocket science is it. Unless you’re an astronaut, and then I suppose it’s related to the fuel consumption and so on.