Exercise is not for me

I’ve got a confession to make….

I don’t like exercise.

It’s not really my thing.

Previous readers will know of my predisposition for being stuck to the sofa, Netflix binge on the go, and my acute annoyance when I’m requested to move. Why can’t someone else do whatever needs to be done? Does my family need feeding EVERY DAY?

If I lived alone, I don’t think anyone would mind that much. Not even the kids. They’re used to fish fingers and chips every night and un-ironed t-shirts. But the fact is, I’m married. To a really nice bloke. I really like him. But he doesn’t seem overly impressed with the whole lying-on-the-sofa thing. I think this is because of his job.

You see. It’s hard for me to say it out loud. But…

He’s a Personal Trainer (or something like that).

Yes. That’s right. One of those people who EXERCISES. A LOT. EVERY DAY. And makes other people do it too.

I don’t know how we ended up together. When I first met him, he was running a few marathons here and there. He got up early to lift weights and go for a run, but I ignored that as I tended to still be asleep at five in the morning and I’m terribly hard of hearing, so he never bothered me.

But as time went on, it got more serious. And he wanted ME to be involved. This is where it got tricky. You see he does Ironman Triathlons. Ironman is nuts. First, you swim. In a sea. Or a lake. And it’s cold. Very cold. And it’s a race, so everyone pushes and kicks each other out of the way. And it hurts. Why would anyone want to do that?

After you get out the water, you get on a bike. You’re still wet so you’re even colder than you were before, and you don’t have time to put socks on (‘cos it’s a race, and it might waste a few seconds, and someone might BEAT you), so your feet get blisters, and they hurt, and you have to ride a very long way. Not just around the block and back, but like, to the next country, up and down hills, in either wind and rain or boiling heat (depending on the location).

I think this is meant to add to the fun.

After you get off your bike you have to run. Not to the corner shop to pick up your Mars Bars, but miles and miles. And miles. You haven’t eaten anything now for around six hours, so you’re starving, but you can’t stop off for lunch (‘cos it’s a race, and it might waste a few seconds, and someone might BEAT you), so you take these little packs of revolting gel stuff with you that you carry on a belt around your waist. To make it better, they come in different flavors, but they still taste like, well, gel.

And you’re thirsty, so thirsty, but you can’t carry water, as it’s heavy, and it might slow you down, (‘cos it’s a race, and it might waste a few seconds, and someone might BEAT you), so well-meaning people along the way throw water bottles at you as you pass. But you’re going at quite a speed (‘cos it’s a race and someone might….  you get it by now), and you have to catch the water. So not only are you running, you’re juggling your gel packs and water bottles and sponges that you squidge on your head ‘cos you’re so bloody hot that you’re gonna die, and the whole thing is proper NUTS.

And my husband LOVES it.

He gets to the end and he is knackered, but so, so happy. And I’m so happy for him. But mainly… I’m happy he didn’t make me do it with him.

My role is to show up three times: once to wave from the sea shore, as I strain to see him disappear amongst the splashing black army of swimmers, heading ominously towards the horizon. Once when he is on his bike, and I have to wave manically and scream loudly, “Go Husband Go! You’re the best!” as he zooms past at a hundred miles an hour, spraying me in sweat and gel spit (it’s not glamorous I’m afraid. No WAGs life for me). And lastly, as I search wildly for him amongst the sea of runners on the final run, desperately trying to remember what color shorts and vest top he has chosen to wear this time.

Is that him in the black, or was it the blue and white today? Is he wearing a hat? Has he got a beard? What color is his hair? Has he got long hair? Has he got hair? Why didn‘t I take the time to look at him at least once during our 30 years of marriage?

The run is the most difficult part for me. I mean, as I’m sure you can appreciate, it’s all pretty exhausting for me, but as he runs past, he’s slower than on the bike, and, unfortunately, he KNOWS if I’m there. This time I have to be SEEN. No way I can concoct a story later about how impressed I was with his zooming around that particularly tight corner on his bike, when I was ACTUALLY halfway through eating the entire hotel buffet. Not that I would ever do that. I am entirely vigilant throughout the whole of the six-hour bike ride journey and would never consider returning to the hotel room for a fix of Netflix or a schluff.

So you get the picture. He likes to exercise. I don’t. And I’m keeping it that way.

Thankfully, no matter how fit and strong he is, I’m still too heavy for him to lift off the sofa.