Skip to main content

Why 7th Grade Poisoned Me To Exercise

Does anyone hate exercise as much as I do? While not calling myself a couch potato, if I have to think about exercising it's not going to happen.

Living in New York means that I exercise just by going outside. Picking the Rabbit up from school and walking her home is already a 20-25 minute walk. And considering I'm always late I practically run to the school -- more aerobic exercise for me!

But if it means I have to go to a studio, a workout room, or please -- a class? -- it's not going to happen. I've tried yoga classes which I love. But working from a home office, when I have a hard fast stop time in the middle of my day (it's called a child) means I am very reluctant to don the workout clothes, walk to a class, come home, shower and restart. That's 2 hours out of my day -- and honestly? I don't feel I have that.

Yes, I have tapes, and barbells, and those stretching bands that I'm supposed to use for resistance. And no I don't run ever since my gym teacher Mr. Kahn in the 7th grade told me I sounded like I was a smoker with asthma when I did the 600-track every morning. (self-conscious is now an understatement.) I love swimming and if I one day win some insane lottery or writers start becoming the highest paid workers in America, I'll install a pool inside my 6-story brownstone and be thrilled.

Until then, it's me some mangy sit-ups and my fast sprint to school each afternoon that I pray can keep the spread at bay. I fear it's not least I stared at my 8-pound weights this morning....


Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …