HOW FIT DO YOU WANT TO BE?
There are limits to the pain you might be prepared to inflict on yourself to whip your physique into beach-ready shape
AFTER months of hard work, I have finally managed to develop an almost classic example of what’s known in the trade as a dad bod. By hard work, I mean minimal exercise, poor diet and unlimited alcohol.
It hasn’t all been downhill. Well, I suppose it has. But the body is a funny thing. Some are funnier than others, that’s for sure. It’s not as easy as you might think to lose all muscle tone and upper body strength and develop a healthy pair of moobs. You don’t just get a dad bod overnight, you know. You need to keep at it.
Here’s what happens. The body is initially delighted. Beer, bunny chows and no exercise? Woo hoo! This is the life.
Then the brain interferes. Hardwired to focus almost exclusively on ways of ensuring the survival of the species, it knows the road you’re trying to take it down leads to a place where opportunities for propagation are few and far between.
It knows that the only women who might, at a push, find a dad bod anything less than repulsive are the ones who have a mom bod. In almost every case, mom bods are more attractive than dad bods.
There’s a reason men on dating sites don’t list their body type as “curvaceous”. Or so I’ve heard.
The brain eventually gives up and says, “Fine. Do whatever you want. Don’t get laid ever again. What do I care?”
Parts of the body, overhearing this, shout, “Hey! Speak for yourself. Selfish brain.” The brain sighs heavily. “Stupid body.”
With the brain and body no longer talking to one another, you can get on with the job of developing the most perfect dad bod on the planet.
No, wait. This is not what I’m meant to be writing about. This was supposed to be about getting into shape for summer. Nobody wants to see your sad dad bod on the beach. It’s horrible.
I went out and bought a magazine for inspiration. I thought I was buying Men’s Health because it had a young half-naked bloke on the cover, but when I got it home I saw it was in fact a magazine called Fitness.
The only reason I never took it back, apart from not wanting to do the 300m walk back to the shops after already having sat down, was because it occurred to me that it was more fitness and not so much health that I was after.
Health you can get from doctors and pharmacists. Fitness, on the other hand, you can only get from a magazine that sports the photograph of a bronzed god with the most perfectly chiselled torso on its cover.
Sitting here looking at his body, two things occur to me. One, I’m not remotely aroused. Two… there is no two. I’m just relieved that at my age I don’t have to start rethinking my sexuality.
I’m not even curious about experimenting. But if I was, it certainly wouldn’t be with Cover Boy. I’d take my shirt off and he’d start laughing and I’d have to kill him. While he was asleep, obviously.
Penetration
And I’d need a pneumatic drill to penetrate his chest, which would probably wake him up unless I’d dosed him with horse tranquillisers beforehand, and I don’t want to be going around to vets with a borrowed cat and then asking for 500g of ketamine for my sick pony back home.
Right, then. Pleased we have that cleared up. Fitness seems to be a gender-neutral concept, so there’s no reason why, if you’re not a man, the advice I am about to glean and share shouldn’t apply to you.
Apart, perhaps, from the feature workout promised on the cover. “Rock hard abs! No excuse for soft abs this summer.” If you’re a woman, simply swap the word abs for willies. You’re welcome.
For a long time I thought abs stood for automatic braking system. It was quite disappointing to discover that it’s some kind of muscle group. When Darwin was dishing out abs, I must’ve been having a smoke in the parking lot.
The cover also promises a “fullbody workout in just one move!” Oh, please. I’ve had that one down for years. All you need is a swivel ’n tilt chair on wheels, a smooth floor and a clear run to the fridge.
Opening the magazine, you’re hit by at least three companies trying to get you to buy their whey. Looking at the models, it seems unlikely they got that way through whey alone.
I reckon they’ve been dipping into the curds, at the very least. Little Miss Muffet certainly did more than sit on her tuffet all day.
The publisher’s name is Andrew Carruthers. In my mind, he was a middle-aged executive who liked to keep fit but who was running a bit to flab as a result of all the meetings he has to attend.
Then I turned the page to the publisher’s letter. I’ve had the police, army, ex-wives and hired assassins after me and lived to tell the tale.
Having Carruthers after me is something I’d like to avoid. He looks like the leader of a prison gang. I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of out-running or out-fighting him.
In his column titled “Grow your mind, not just your muscles”, he says: “The greatest ideas in history have come from people who were considered outcasts, insane or mad.”
This gives me hope that we could sit down over a brace of tequilas and a couple of whey chasers and discuss the subtle differences between insanity and madness.
Let me flip through the magazine to find ways of developing a beach bod that will blow the girls away this summer.
I suspect, though, the only way this might happen is if I strap a bomb belt around my wobbly white waist.
I might have left it a bit late, to be honest. Summer is in full swing in Durban while Cape Town is still trying to make up its mind.
Anyway, it’s rutting season and looking anything better than our worst is best for all concerned.
Alan asks, via e-mail, what to do about stiffness in his joints after heavy lifting.
Alan, if you’re struggling to lift your joints, you’re either rolling them too big and too tight or you have the physique of Mr Burns.
I’ve thought of going to gym at different points in my life – most of them were pretty low, admittedly – but I’ve never known what to wear so I didn’t go. Good thing, too. A gym T-shirt costs R900 and a pair of shorts R749. I can go to a back street plastic surgeon and get the fat sucked out of me for that price.
I thought I might learn something from an interview with Cover Boy Wayne Coetzee. And I did. He says the secret is to never miss a meal, never miss a workout. Excellent. I have 50 percent of it under control already.
Another memorable quote is: “I always squeeze the muscle with every rep, whether it’s a superset or a max-rep set.”
If I ever manage to find out what he’s talking about, I bet I can look like him in no time at all. I was married twice, so I’m already familiar with the muscle-squeezing bit.
Oh, thank God. There’s a sultry, under-dressed wench on page 26. Just looking at her is cardio training on its own.
Like Little Miss Muffet, she also likes her whey. I bet she gets her whey whenever she demands it.
Her ideal man, apart from having a body like Achilles (without the dodgy heel), is “good with cuddles and booty rubs”.
I am the cuddle-meister and I used to rub my army booties until you could shave in their reflection. Call me, babe.
There is also advice on how to biohack your sex life. Biohack? Sex life? What are these things?
It’s suggested that you perform “male deer exercises” and eat a Peruvian root that grows on the slopes of the Andes.
I miss the good old days of just whipping off your broeks and getting to work without having to first go to Peru or prance about the lounge snorting and pawing the ground.
If pain is your thing, there’s a feature on endurance where you can “learn to suffer”.
Please. I’ve been married twice. I know about suffering.
“Upgrade your paltry four pack to a beach-ready six pack!”
That reminds me. I have to get to the bottle store before it closes. See you at the beach.