Since I got my first personal trainer at 15, I have paid fit people to get me to jog round the park, jump up and down or hit things. But it was only recently that I found my fitness holy grail
I am what is known in sophisticated circles as a lazy sod. I am rarely happier than when I’m PJ’d and sofa-stretched, thumbing through a good book or weeping at Queer Eye. For a metric of my sloth, I have a long and chequered history of paying fit people to make bits of me stop jiggling. This is the story of how I learned that, if I wanted to do all the things that are most important to me, I could never expect to achieve Beyoncé’s thighs, and also how extrinsic motivation (ie an impossibly toned person cheering: “You can do it – you love the burn,” while you heave out your joy into a puddle of blotches) only gets you so far.
I was 15 when I got a personal trainer for the first time. It’s unclear to me whether it was my record label that wanted me to lose weight, or my mother. More likely, I’m just using them as an excuse and it was me all along. Anyway, I somehow ended up with Jacob, a 5ft 9in rake in his late 20s, whom I paid to tell me to jog round the park. The arrangement didn’t last. I had, shortly before this, started smoking as a life choice, and jogging was getting in the way of that. Also, I didn’t fancy him. Perhaps if Jacob had been more my kind of fit, I would now have Beyoncé’s thighs – but, much as I would like to, I can’t very well blame him for that.
Continue reading...from The Guardian http://bit.ly/2Xpztyi
via
0 Comments