Going through sporadic, albeit fleeting, bouts of fitness isn't a new concept for me, but the genuine lack of motivation or goals always reduces my efforts to a week of gentle jogging, before collapsing in a wheezing heap of asthmatic mess on the floor, resembling something a smoker might hack up on the pavement.
Asthma is also a major hindrance to any exercise regime I attempts - not through any medical reasoning, but because I can deploy the self-pitying excuse as soon as I get wheezy, allowing me to back down from any physical activity while convincing myself I don't look entirely lazy. People don't mock others with undisclosed levels of minor health issues, right?
Never-the-less, it's that time of year when I should start thinking about looking after myself, put down the butter-infused IV drip and start waddling around until my face drips with the unfamiliar salty sweat my body tries so desperately to keep inside me.
The problem still looming was that of continual motivation. It's all very noble to try to better myself and live a healthier life style for the same reasons as everyone else (and overwhelming sense of self-satisfaction and the pungent stench of smugness), but that's never been enough for me. There are plenty of other things - easier alternatives - that I can develop to lord my deity-like talent and worth over people/feel better about myself. Even easier still is to invent something to be better at.
What? You can't Skypar? That doesn't surprise me...
This new bout of fitness, however, has an alternate goal - one I've never trouble myself over in the past: Vanity. Or, less succinctly, to help curb my ridiculous physical appearance while wearing a skirt and delivering a speech to a large room full of people.
As I've mentioned several thousand times before, I'm set to be best man at a wedding in Scotland come September. This inevitably means having to wear a kilt and have my photograph taken as I awkwardly hide my awkward nature behind an awkward facade of confidence and comfort, a concept that is about as natural to me as a dog training a hamster to shit out tiny star-shaped pellets to decorate a child's lunchbox. Only with less appealing results.
So here I am - slowly building up my endurance, and something called "cardio", with a milder variation of an MMA fighters exercise/warm-up regime. Although instead of doing 15 minutes a day, three times I week, I'm working at a gentleman's 5 minutes a day, with 3 hours of weeping and 4 hours fruitlessly licking at an emptied packed of Haribo in a desperate attempt to remember what sweets taste like. (Did I mention I'm also trying to eat healthy? Probably not, as that's going about as well as Tory Lib-Dem coalition. SATIRE GET!) (Incidentally, that joke could be seen as a direct metaphor to how well this fitness milarky is going).
So that's that. I have a goal, I have a plan, and I have minimum required level of enthusiasm to tackle the task.
Now, if you don't mind, I'm off to do another 5 whole minutes of exercise, complete about 3 minutes of it (I've got asthma you see, which stops me from getting as much air into my lungs and stuff, so I can't breathe as long as normal people can, you know, when they exercise and that), then complete another 12.8 Skypar permiations.
It'll be a new world record. But I don't expect you to understand.
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