It’s Spring. Jasmine is out and the days are getting longer, which means it’s time for my gym’s annual fitness challenge.
Perfectly timed, the email, concisely titled “10-Week Fat Loss Program,” came right after the first swimsuit ad. I immediately signed up.
Ab Flab? “It turns out that the two most tense parts of my body, my cheek masseter muscles, are actually due to existential fear.”Credit:Saunders and French productions
Of course, I have a mirror, so I know this isn’t going to turn me into Elle Macpherson. The point of doing so is not to look better – that ship has sailed – or even to slow the rate of decline. Like removing rust from a Leyland P76, I’m doing this to keep myself roadworthy.
The late author Nora Ephron wrote a classic essay, in maintenance, about all the things you do when you’re struggling with middle age. In it, she said that she oscillated between getting in shape and breaking something. “So far in the ripping department, I’ve accomplished the following: I pulled my lower back doing sit-ups; I threw my right hip on the treadmill and completely shattered my neck rolling off the bed.”
I can’t write like Nora, but I can exercise like her. I hurt my hip in a stretching class and once pulled all my lower abs doing a burpee. “So basically you were just throwing your arms over your head?” my GP asked in horror, looking at my black and blue stomach.
“I’m just doing this to stay roadworthy.”Credit:Thompson/Fairfax Media
None of this has deterred me from trying to cheat the clock. Recently, I entered the temple of self-improvement – the cosmetic clinic. After the doctor asked me to remove the mask, he gasped audibly, “You’ve lost so much volume on your face!” Did I blurt out, “At least I have cheekbones, moon face”? No, I snuck home intending to Google “low facial volume” and “cancer,” just in case.
The problem is that I have no history with exercise. When we were teenagers, we used diuretics and Alpine Lights to fit in our jeans; in college I was able to lose weight by switching from Chablis to Smirnoff cask. It never occurred to us to play sports. Wouldn’t it make you sweat?
Of course, it’s all pointless, as many of my friends have commented. One, with a nonchalantly French attitude to life, told me not to be stupid. “No one is looking at you and anyway it’s the 45+ face or figure, look at Catherine Deneuve.” In fact, every time I do this challenge, I end up looking 10 years older, with more wrinkles than a Shar-Pei.
