Laments of the unfit

Those of you who know me are well aware of my general aversion to exercise. I am not what one would call a "gym enthusiast"; in fact, I'm not a get-out-of-bed enthusiast. If I had my way, I would spend the rest of winter hibernating under a pile of feathery duvets, with the occasional excursion to use the bathroom or make a cup of tea. I love my bed. I love tea. I do not love exercise.

However, my aversion to exercise has unfortunately started to show. Since moving into a new digs, last year's 20min walk to campus has been shortened to 5min. Since moving out of res two years ago, the amount of food I eat has drastically increased. Gone are the days of grey cauliflower and undercooked chicken schnitzels in the res dining hall; in digs, I can make myself blue cheese pasta, or lemon chicken with roast potatoes, or as much toast as my tummy could handle (how I love toast...). Nom nom nom. However, the lack of walking and the indulgence of my long-inhibited foodie side have led to weight gain. And so, with great trepidation, I finally forced myself to join the gym.

Now, I do understand that one does not need to join the gym in order to exercise. I could quite easily throw together a little routine to do in the comfort of my own flat, or download a variety of home work-out videos with sprightly women in Spandex who would march purposefully on the spot and encourage me to join in. But deep in my heart, I know that I would never actually do it. It would be too easy to fob off exercise with excuses like "I have too much work", "I'm too tired", or "I should be studying". By joining the gym, I force myself to exercise. Why? Because otherwise I've wasted R580. I paid for it; I may as well get my money's worth.

For further motivation, I convinced my significant other to join the gym too. I suspect that we've both slid into a bit of a relationship rut when it comes to exercise, along the lines of "Why bother getting sexy if I already have someone?" Luckily for him, his lack of exercise has not led to the same worrying wobbliness that I've experienced. But I managed to convince him, and so we joined together. I even managed to convince him to get up early for a morning session. Those of you who know him may understand what an achievement this was.

The first session went as expected. I hopped on a treadmill, surrounded by girls in lycra tights who were pelting along as if their lives depended on it. Determined not to look like an outsider, I marched through my minute-and-a-half warm-up walk, and then started at a comfortable jog. Three minutes in, I was congratulating myself on not losing my fitness. Five minutes in, I was puffing. By the time my ten minute jog was up, I believe I may have been dying.

But R580 is R580, so I wobbled off the treadmill on jelly legs and staggered determinedly upstairs to take on the machine from hell: The Elliptical.

I hate ellipticals with a burning passion. They are horrible machines. In fact, I strongly suspect that I simply do not have the legs for elliptical workouts. Even at the height of my fitness (which, admittedly, was not particularly high), I struggled to survive a session on these things. As I tried to block out the burning in my thighs I also resisted the urge to kill the girl next to me out of sheer envy. She had set her machine at a much higher resistance than mine (come on, we all check these things...) and was happily trundling away while carrying on a conversation with her friend. Damn her and her toned thighs.

From the elliptical it was on to what my sister calls "the slut machine". I don't actually know the name of these machines; I just know that they're awkward to use. Modestly turned to face away from the rest of the gym, these machines either force your thighs apart or together, leaving you to press against the weights. It's like two opposing moral forces; one thrusts your legs open while you struggle grimly to resist the temptation; the other wedges them together so that you struggle to push them apart. (Delightful imagery, I know).

Thankfully I was spared further torture when my significant other appeared and said that he was done for the day. We wobbled out together, with me waxing lyrical about how fit I was going to be by the end of the month.The post-workout endorphins were flowing, and I was convinced I was going to be as toned as a Greek god. This self-satisfaction lasted until the following morning, when I tried to stumble bleary-eyed to the bathroom. As I rolled out of bed, I felt the faintest tweak of warning in my calves. I ignored it. But as I stood up, my legs shrieked in protest and I nearly pitched backwards onto the bed again. Aching stiffness radiated through every inch of my poor, muscle-less legs. As I hobbled to the bathroom, straight-legged and aching, I reminded myself once again why I hated exercise. Sometimes I suspect that just getting fat would make me so much happier...

The psychology of socks

This evening, I realised for the first time that I've been working too hard lately. How did this realisation occur, you ask? I tried to throw my socks away.

Seriously.

I got out of the shower. I dried myself. I put on underwear, pants, and a top. Then, for some reason known only to my subconscious, I walked into the kitchen and threw my socks in the bin.
OK I didn't exactly throw them in. By the time my hand was over the bin the awake part of my brain had managed to alert the rest that something had misfired and I was in danger of losing some hard-earned clothing. For a moment I just stood there, staring at the socks and trying to work out what I was doing wrong.

And I am genuinely relieved that I did not throw my socks away. Good socks are hard to come by. Perhaps I am alone in this problem, but my socks have a tendency to wear away at the toes and heels, leaving my tender footsies partially exposed to the biting Grahamstown cold. When I was little, my mom told me that as long as my feet were warm, the rest of me would be warm. I like to think that there is a scientific reason for it, and that she didn't just brainwash me into believing it.

Of course, not all of my socks have disappointed me (I sound like an overachieving parent...). Fluffy socks never fail me. I can wear them day in and day out, for winter after winter, and they continue to be warm, fluffy and - most importantly - whole. I have three pairs of cherished, much-loved fluffy socks, and they continue to snuggle my toes to this day. As exams loom, the wind howls and I despair over the stressful LLB life, my fluffy socks are a constant point of reference in my life.

Perhaps that's why I tried to throw my socks away tonight. My overworked and exhausted subconscious was trying to send me a message: it needs the comfort of fluffy polka-dot socks if it's going to continue to function. My psyche is desperate for the cosy delight of coddled tootsies.

Or maybe I just need more sleep.