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? Isn’t my 12 year old big enough yet to wash his own
clothes? 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 got used to fish
fingers and chips every night and un-ironed t-shirts pretty quickly. 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 that 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 5 in the morning and I’m 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 now 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 adds to the
fun.
After you get off your bike
you have to run. Not to the corner shop to pick up your Mars Bar, but
miles and miles. And miles. You haven’t eaten anything now for around 6 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 girlie belt
around your waist. To make it better, they come in different flavours, 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 colour 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 colour 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 20 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 6 hour bike ride journey and would never
consider returning to the hotel room for a fix of Greys Anatomy - 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.
