JEREMY CORBETT
JEREMY’S DEAL WITH HIS INNER BLOB ISN’T REALLY WORKING OUT
Ihave discovered a time machine. It’s called “the gym”. I don’t know if you are familiar with such places. They’re large rooms, sometimes whole buildings, dedicated to pointless exercise.
I say pointless because the exercise has no purpose other than exercise itself. There used to be a time we didn’t need these places: chasing down a mammoth, yelling at the moon or simply being unable to find plentiful food meant we never got fat or unfit.
But as humanity found ways to overfeed itself without the need for exertion, so grew the necessity of exertion for exertion’s sake. Ergo, “the gym”.
I’ve been going recently as I try to halt the tide of weakness and fat rising around my midsection. An army of lethargy has slowly and stealthily been making my body its home over the last few years.
“No more!” I declared recently. “Out, you sloth!” I demanded. Then I sat down to recover from the effort of all that yelling. After a cookie to reward myself for being so decisive, I started to negotiate with my inner blob. This was quite difficult because we agreed on most things. We both enjoyed the same foods, drinks and physical comforts.
Eventually, we struck a deal
– I would continue to feed him in the manner to which he had become accustomed, but I would increase the exercise side and over time he would pack his bags and move out.
It seemed to be the perfect solution. That was until I discovered the time machine properties of the gym.
I don’t mind working out. I’m happy to get the old heart pumping faster and introduce some oxygen to undiscovered parts of my musculature. I just don’t want to be there to experience it. If someone invented a gym you could drop your body off at while your consciousness went and had a coffee, they’d have more customers than the internet.
The fact is 30 minutes on a treadmill is roughly equivalent to three hours’ normal time. I experience every single second and hate them all individually. I play mind games to get me through. I count down to the bliss of it all being over.
Driving to the gym takes me 10 or 15 minutes. Ten or 15!
Not very exact is it? There’s a five-minute margin of error in there. I know exactly how long I exercise for. Down to the second. If someone made me do an extra five minutes, I would hate them with a rare intensity.
Ambling through life, time slips by unnoticed. Ambling on a treadmill, time stares at you, taps you on the shoulder and constantly talks about how long this is taking. They say, “Regular exercise will extend your life.” This may be true but I think, in the interest of accuracy, they should rephrase the saying to, “Regular exercise will drag your life out.”