The Horrible Futility of Exercise

Exercise.

I have the body of a fat slob. [She was quite fond of it.]

I'm at a numerical point in my life where the necessity of moving around, strengthening muscles, increasing cardiovascular ability and decreasing adipose tissue becomes increasingly clear. It involves my future.

In reflecting on this it's necessary to tune out the media onslaught of articles and ads which continually hammer at the rest of us to get on the stick. I hate being told what to do or comparing myself to others. It seems that there are a lot of people out there who are graceful and adept, strong and quick, and actually enjoy physical activities. I think they're wonderful. In the words of Peter Sellers in "Being There," I like to watch.

The one factor that is the greatest obstacle to me is not a limitation on time, although I spend a disproportionate time trying to sleep a full eight hours. I work late but am a morning person, experiencing a peak of energy and interest in thinking and so forth in what needs to be the center of my sleep cycle, and then trying to fall asleep and catch the last two or three hours of sleep. It's not a lack of usable limbs, thank heavens, or even really a lack of energy. At heart I hate repetitive exercise because of the overwhelming sense of drudgery it brings on. I can't move without drowning in self-loathing.

To engage in exercise, even something as easy and pleasant as taking a walk, fills my heart with a horrible sense of futility, combined with extreme self-consciousness, anxiety and tedium. So I've been trying to track down the origin of this feeling so I can overcome it. At this point, people who are practical and results-oriented would point out that the best way to overcome an aversion to exercise is to stop thinking about it and just do it. Okay, I can just do it, and I will still feel impending doom. Besides, I like thinking. It gives me something to do while I try to go back to sleep.

So where does this feeling come from? As a child I did enjoy climbing trees, walking, hiking, playing and dancing. But there are two memories that carry the feeling of dread. One is of watching my mother exercising. She really started this in the aftermath of experiencing one of the first initially identified episodes of Guillain-Barre Syndrome, from which she mostly recovered with extensive physical therapy. I don't imagine my mother particularly disliked exercise. Or ironing. However, I have a strong quality of empathizing with others, almost like a sponge, and my mother was very depressed and miserable. I associate the activities of cleaning house, exercise, and ironing, with extreme tedium and futility.

My other memory is of Physical Education at school, which I mostly loathed. I was not graceful, quick, or adept at sports or any activity requiring cooperating in a group or quick thinking. I was already pre-selected as an object of derision. So Gym Class presented an ample opportunity to feel self-conscious, confused, clumsy, left out and miserable. Whenever I become involved in exercise, I still have those same feelings, to a surprising degree, as though my body remembers my humiliation as a "sense memory" and informs my mind.

In my life I have enjoyed walking, swimming, dancing, and Tai Chi, although I found the latter a form of self-consciousness in slow motion.

I wonder if there are any trees around suitable for climbing?