Time for reflection

About two weeks ago, I told my mum I’ve started developing the nasty habit of looking down at people who don’t work out. When I see shopping trolleys filled with coke and pizza, I shake my head and frown. Looking out of the window while walking on the treadmill and catching the eye of a poor passer-by who probably has a very good reason for being overweight, a sense of pity and judgement overcomes me. Having spent the past two weeks in bed for reasons including sinusitis, influenza, urticaria, and a general feeling of being unwell, I’ve started to become ashamed of my swift and condescending evaluation of people I don’t know and know nothing about. Just like I gained more kilos than I’d like to share here while I had bronchitis last year, I have absolutely no right to judge the people who do not frequent the gym for reasons unknown to me now. 

Simply because I have chosen to prioritise exercise as part of my life, and keep it high on my value list, it doesn’t make me any better or stronger or more enlightened than the people who don’t. They may be followers of the belief that when life gives you a spare moment to breathe, it should be enjoyed with relaxation, wine and chocolate. Or eat tons of pasta, like the Italians. Or watch their favourite re-run on TV. Good on them. They may have four children at home, perhaps one sick with something, the other needing help with their homework, or all four waiting to attend a soccer tournament for which cinnamon buns must be baked. They may, like my mother, work 60-hour weeks, have a corpus librum floating around their knee, and be awaiting surgery in order to get to the gym. In the end, no extension of authority for passing judgement is given to me simply because I choose go to the gym six times a week. 

After all, I have an almost completely stress- and carefree life. I may choose to pile projects and exercise onto my plate, but it’s an easy choice. The only person I have to consider when making my choice is just as keen to re-visit his weights and reps as me. Piece of cake, some might even say. So here it is, my public and broadcast promise: I will never pass judgement upon a non-gym-goer again. 

Sickly strain

Two days ago I got the flu, bad, with a fever, runny nose, chesty cough and aching bones. It reminded me (once again) of how incredibly lucky I am to live a healthy life, with enough money to buy medicine and food whenever I need it. Furthermore, it reminded me of how much I enjoy working out on a regular basis. It’s funny how my energy levels plummet (and no, it’s not just the flu), my concentration seems to perish, and anything other than lying in bed for a “24” marathon feels inexplicably demanding after just two days of staying home from the gym. Saying goodbye to Ariz as my mum dropped him off earlier today adds just a little bit of a bitter touch to the whole thing. 

This bitterness is incredibly fascinating to me, because, just one year ago, going to the gym was a chore. It was an effort that had to be factored into my stressful and rushed day on par with making dinner and doing my homework. Admittedly, going to the gym has become a lot easier in the last few months, what with a home gym and all, but even now when I’m in Norway, and have to drive the same distance as I did to Aqualife in Vic Park, it has ceased to feel like an effort. Now, I crave the treadmill, and the weights, and the simple act of putting on my workout gear. My muscles ache not just from the flu, but also from their lack of resistance training, subsequent soreness, and relieving recovery. It feels like my entire being is begging me to put on my trainers, get into the car, and drive off to what should be its daily workout. 

And even though I want to finish my university work for the day, my eyes droop, as my mind promises it’ll let me concentrate on academics if it can just bargain with the body for even a ten-minute walk on the treadmill. Then I cough, and swallow with some difficulty, reminding my body that I am, in fact, sick with the flu. It sighs. Fine then, keep your droopy eyes and wandering thoughts. We can wait. I smile, because the (bitter)sweetness to it is, I really can’t.