I hate exercise. I know this is a politically incorrect thing to say, but it’s the truth. Let me explain…
Now that everybody is talking about their New Year’s Resolutions, you can hear the word gym on every corner.
And while it makes me feel guilty, it’s not enough to send me sprinting to the above mentioned building to buy my membership.
I’m not a total couch potato, though. I’m a very active person and walk to work every day. I don’t mind doing it if I’m going somewhere, but walking or running just for the sake of it seems pointless and boring.
My eldest son is a long-distance runner and the fitness guru in the family. This Christmas he tried to coach me and succeeded for a few days. Don’t be under any illusions though, my efforts won’t get me an entry in the Guiness Book of Records, but still…
When he went on holiday, the youngest made me (yes, there was force involved) play basketball with him and came to the conclusion I’d better stay at home writing nonsense on my computer. And don’t think he bothered to spare my feelings… maybe he was trying to motivate me (police academy style).
You mustn’t think I feel proud of my attitude, but I’m sure it stems from some childhood trauma or other.
Back when I was in high school, P.E. wasn’t considered an important subject. For many of my classmates it was a time to have fun, for me it was a nightmare.
Even though I had a lovely figure back then, I was fearful and clumsy. While some of the other girls, jumped, climbed and turned cartwheels, I tried to make myself invisible.
My gym teacher didn’t like me and I guess the feeling was mutual. I’ve never forgotten her though, her name was Angustias Bocanegra. Let me try to translate that for you: Sorrows Blackmouth. No, don’t laugh. I’m not kidding.