FUTILE EXERCISE

When it comes to fitness, Kate’s run out of excuses!

There is somewhat of a disparity in our house regarding exercise. We have my husband, the running fanatic, who goes out each day for a run in rain, hail or shine. He also bikes, walks and generally never stops as his idea of relaxing is to wash cars, clean the pool and do the gardening.

Then there are the teens, all involved in various sports, plus one of my sons who’s reached that “I have to bulk up” stage of making protein shakes and doing a neverending series of workouts.

There’s my youngest daughter, who runs around with the dog, plus plays sport. And then there’s me. As my sister says, a fat person in a skinny person’s body.

It’s true. I’m woefully unfit. I puff walking up the stairs. I do yoga twice a week, but that’s really just a series of stretching, talking ad nauseam to my yoga teacher and doing a bit of breathing. I don’t know that I can call it any kind of aggressive cardio or heart-racing exercise.

I attempted boot camp once, maybe twice. It almost killed me – it’s unnatural to leap around like that in public places, surely? And besides, when the other mums are all older than you and you’re still falling over, it’s not a good look.

I joined a gym, did about two circuits with a personal trainer, then quit. I took up running and did a half marathon, which I completed, staggering to the end limping as I’d done my knee in not long after the starting gun. I spent longer in physio on that knee than I ever did in all my running.

I did Pilates for a bit, but that went by the wayside. We have a bike at home, which I was determined to ride each day, but I kept forgetting it existed.

So the other day, when my husband asked me to come for a walk with him, I could barely even look up from my book before he started doing impersonations of my potential replies. “Oh, it’s too hot,” he joked. “Or is it too cold? Or let me guess, too windy? Too rainy? You’re tired? You can’t find your shoes? You’ve got work to do?” And so it went.

Affronted by this p***-take (and also mortified at how accurate it was), his reverse psychology worked. “Fine,” I harrumphed. “I’ll come.”

I set off upstairs to get my running shoes and was almost at the wardrobe when I spotted the puppy giving me her cutest side-eye look. “Oh, look,” I cooed. “Look at her. She doesn’t want me to leave the house. Maybe she’s hungry? Or she might need water? I’ll take her outside and see if she wants to do wees.”

And suddenly I was lost in a world of puppy love, oohing and ahhing on the front lawn with my little white ball of fluff.

“Hopeless,” my husband announced as he wandered past us out the front gate.

“Maybe next time?” I called as I lay down on the grass to snuggle the puppy.