Have you ever been expected to run after a fit person? They think they’re slowing down to accomodate your physical impositions but in fact they just go up instead of along so you feel like you’re charging after Tigger.
Actually, ‘charging’ is a misnomer as I walk faster than I jog but R, gods love ‘im, is nothing if not observant so after the second time of looking around only to see me 400 yards behind and failing fast, he gave up the effort to increase my heart rate and settled into a sort of low speed lope, with me staggering along in his wake.
Apparently only fit people sweat (whereas I thought it was only done by a pool, holding a mojito) so the strange aubergine hue is thus a sign that I need to do something about my deplorable lack of stamina. Mind you, I’ve been considering ‘doing something’ about my deplorable lack of stamina since I opened Biblo in 2006 but until now have limited any attempts to increase the number of situps to a brief barf by the Kelvin in 2008.
Enter R.
Admirably enthusiastic about such things, R decided that I would be a good guinea pig for his theories on fitness and I, in my weakened decaf state*, thought that fast approaching 40 was a good time to relive my imaginary days of slender health…
Things I have learned from this misconcieved plan of weightloss:
- shouting ‘squirrel!’ and trying to hide behind a bush doesn’t work – R is impossible to distract.
- lying in a puddle and refusing to get up only extends the punishment – R simply considers this time a rest period and adds it onto the end of the hour.
- NikNaks are a dietary must – deciding to enter into the spirit of things by having a banana and water for breakfast rather than 3 cups of tea, 2 cigarettes and a packet of Nice ‘n Spicy only leads to me throwing up behind a tree.
- pretending that I can’t hear the doorbell is a waste of time as R will simply lean on it until C gets pissed off and kicks me out of the house.
- going to the physio for a knee injury is an awkward 45 minutes as the physio trys not to say ‘we see this a lot in people your age who decide to lose the fat’ and I try and blame the damage on an imaginary career as a high ranking kick boxer. Plus, I will come out of the session with a cricked neck.
- it hurts. A lot. And R refuses to negotiate on repetitions.
- I can fuck with the relationship between trainer and ‘client’ by saying ‘no’ and wandering off but as I am generally curled in the foetal position, sobbing, I don’t get very far and shouting ‘squirrel!’ and trying to hide behind a bush doesn’t work as R is impossible to distract…
People always say that they always feel great after exercising, but I could get that feeling of euphoric release by stopping slamming my skull against a wall. Or – and here’s a wacky suggestion – I could feel great all the time by simply not hitting myself on the head with a hammer.
Just a thought.
* The Staff colluded and put me on the decaf as I was, by all accounts, getting a little agitated. For three days I thought I had mono but, admittedly, now sleep much better. The only problem is that their success in subverting my wishes means that I am now only allowed caffeine before 1pm. When did this place turn into a democracy…?
[...] the Biblo-familia: nudity on Great Western Road, a series of ever more dubious health and fitness decisions, a myriad of lubricated lock-ins when we were supposed to be alphabetising the books, a fantastic [...]