It seems appropriate to start with an old joke “ Hey, fatty you need to get into shape / I am in shape, round is a shape. Middle aged, middle English spread is apparently the blight of what used to be known as the ˜middle class’, but is now referred to as ABC-1 two kids, one house, two cars, one mistress, three tvs, two pointless hobbies and an impending divorce by marketing nonces.
You’d have thought being porky would be the least of their worries, and yet Gym membership is the second biggest growth industry after Viagra* for the over forties. Not exactly keen to throw myself in with this fat club, yet physical evidence reveals wobbly bids heading south from an emerging double chin, through a pair of quivering man boobs, flabby under arm hangs and a booming belly that is beginning to throw it’s weight around.
Yet in my tiny little mind, an Adonis like figure strides purposefully across the earth, while the simple mirror reflects a pot bellied stumbler risking asphyxiation by continually sucking it all in.
Much of this unwanted padding is merely long term storage for beer and while this presents a simple solution the issue of being more than you want, it would need to be some kind of medical emergency before I considered abandoning liquid therapy. And even if the best diagnostic minds promised death in a month if you carry on, I’d still need to weigh up the pros and cons.
Realistically I cannot exercise any more because riding bikes already bites huge chunks out of the spare time cake. And this already presents an interesting body pattern with the lower half resembling a rugged outdoorsy type while gazing upwards from the navel projects the image of a fat man living the donut dream.
The prospect of gym membership is an anathema to me; I just cannot bring myself to oxygenate the rarefied air of the narcissistic Body Nazis’. And we all know the fib that is home exercise equipment – a double jeopardy of a usage pattern tapering from every day to no bloody way, in three dreary months, and the ensuing guilt that can only be assuaged by inhaling an industrial block of chocolate.
So instead, I’ve been trying these new designer sit ups where you crunch and gurn, while lying flat and staring at the ceiling. There’s a parallel activity that probably burns more calories and doesn’t get you to thinking that the entire top floor of your house needs re-plastering.
Anyway, that’s probably not enough. I could consider altering my diet but it’s really not that bad, aside from a penchant for fatty cheese and lashings of buttered toast, chocolate and crisps rarely move me from supine slacking on the sofa. Salad is an option but not a good one, it is merely crinkly water over-branded by marketing
But then I thought why bother? Am I actually unhealthy? No. Is their stuff that’d be easier if I was a stone or so lighter (aside from snake hipping into ten year old jeans)? Not so much that I’m prepared to put in significant effort . Am I so cravenly insecure that I think body shape is in some way going to improve how I’m viewed or how I view myself?
H’mm not sure about that, better have a couple of beers to consider my answer.
*I made that up for the purpose of comedic merit. Possibly not worth it.