Joining the gym last month gave me a head start in the old New Year’s resolution game. I’m not a big fan of exercise, but the combination of health anxiety and bereavement sent Banatin howling as if the Grim Reaper himself was chasing me on his motorcycle.
I am amazed at how much I am enjoying it. I was especially pleasantly surprised by the median age of the members. I imagined and dreaded tanned buff lovelys in their teens and twenties. But I don’t think many people can afford to pay for a gym membership anymore (£714 a year if paid up front, but there’s no doubt there will be a barrage of special deals this week).
Instead, I’m far from the oldest bird to bring flabby, wrinkled old meat into the steam room. Worrying about looking silly when you’re doing something obviously silly is pretty silly in itself, but the possibility of looking silly has kept me out of exercise for far too long. I love to swim and all my long-loved fats are real assets.
I’ve also done yoga and Shivam, a kind of glee-inspired dance class.
Or you can choose landscapes to stroll, San Francisco, or the Lake District. You can pass, enjoy the scenery, and be sneaky and unfriendly to people’s sense of dress. You don’t have to cut yourself off from all the fun of a walk, the inconvenience of the weather, or the civilization – Westwood Cross, anyway.
Choose the Lake District and you’ll find yourself ankle-deep in dozens of dogs. Someone decided it would make the walk better. Isn’t it funny? Sure they speed me up and try to get away from them. The other day, I almost waved.
I much prefer January to Christmas. For the masochist, hard work, denial, striving, deprivation are all mana. Indulgence is. damn you. dull. Don’t you think so? You can sit for days watching TV and packing treats. Two hours after that, I’m on a binge. Add the family members to the mix and give it 10 minutes. Even the highest pleasures become sour and meaningless when taken too far. It turns its back on itself, exhausted, bored, exhausted, self-loathing. In fact, back to discomfort.
“Like a roller coaster rider, and how I continue to write these columns despite endless comments begging me to stop. Playing with pain for personal and professional gain…”
If pleasure can quickly turn into pain, can pain also turn into pleasure? Probably easier, of course.
The pleasant pain I felt in my shoulders from beating 60 lengths (yes, 60, and yes, I’m just writing this to brag about it) all day long is a testament to this truth. I am choosing to feel bad in order to feel better both emotionally and physically.
Much like the New Year’s Day dip tradition. Roller coaster rider, horror movie lover. How I continue to write these columns despite the constant comments begging me to stop. playing with pain
I don’t think that going to the gym makes me look younger, thinner, or thinner. I want to be a little healthier so I can live long enough to write thousands of columns and dozens of books. But mostly I am motivated by the delicious endorphin rush that accomplishment brings. Purification of trials. It may feel wise to seal your spoiled self from challenge, but it also means living life in sober grey, in fear of your body’s ecstatic potential. target. To live in moderation is to waste it.
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