Humor and Satire on the Difficulties of Staying Physically Fit

Sweating to the Oldies

by Stephen Phillips

I’ve reached that period in life where the "six pack" that used to adorn my Adonis-like figure has now mysteriously transformed into a keg.

Those rippling muscles that were once admired by teenage girls are now the butt of jokes among my equally unhealthy friends and me: "Hey man, check it out. I can make my stomach shake like a Jell-O pudding!"

There was a time when I was quite the fitness fanatic. I used to run every day. I played rugby. I ate healthy food. I owned two pairs of sneakers.

These days, the only aerobic exercise I get regularly needs no fancy equipment, since it is of a personal nature (just me and the good lady).

I know there is no excuse not to exercise on a regular basis, and all the scientific evidence indicates that exercising regularly can improve one's quality of life. That's all well and good, but just what kind of exercise shall I pursue?

Should I shell out big bucks to join a trendy gym, work like a dog for thirty minutes on some astonishingly complicated piece of high-tech equipment, only to have the instructor tell me that I'm sitting on it backwards?

Maybe join a swimming club? No, I think not. I can just imagine the kids covering me in grease and trying to push me into the water, yelling "Be gone, Shamu!"

How about whipping out the onion-peel shorts and joining the jogging set? That would be fun: dodging traffic, cyclists, and pedestrians…oh, and little doggy presents. (I'm feeling fitter already.)

Then again, it might be more to my advantage to purchase one of those exercise machines that you always see being hawked on late night TV by the likes of Chuck Norris or Suzanne Sommers. Great stuff, with names that really inspire one to exercise: The Abdominizer…The Thigh Slapper…The Spine O-Matic.

“Wow, where's the credit card?” you think. “That fine-looking piece of equipment will make me the envy of all my friends.” But as we all know, in six months it will just be more stuff cluttering up your living room. (Look on the bright side: at least it will be somewhere to sling your jacket on your return from the pub.)

There is one piece of exercise equipment currently on the market that deserves special mention. I don't know the name of it offhand, but in essence it consists of little sticky pads that you apply to those "problem areas." (Okay, girls—hands up if you know where I'm talking about.) You plug it in, sit back in the comfort of your armchair, and (this is the good part) it sends small electrical charges coursing through your body, supposedly causing your muscles to contract, thereby giving you washboard abs.

This sounds all well and good, but the only drawback is that after continued use, you will have built up enough electric charge in your body to light a small town. (Oh, and don't go out in the rain, as you'll probably electrocute anyone within a five foot radius.)

Exercising is big business these days, and people are shelling out major bucks to try to have a body that looks like Michelangelo’s "David" rather than the Bob's Big Boy statue. But why is it that with all the resources available to give us that perfect body, the majority of the population would more easily qualify for entry into a Michelin Man look-alike contest?

I'll tell you why. Because essentially we are lazy, apathetic, fast food junkies whose days of actually walking anywhere, thereby getting exercise, are long gone.

If you’re truly fired up about getting that perfect physique, I would recommend getting the "Thai Bo" fitness tapes endorsed by Billy Blanks, that musclebound hero of Hollywood types. That way, at least when you get fed up with it, you can use what you've learned to kick ten bells of crap out of the rowing machine cluttering up your living room: "Can you feel the burn, baby?"

(c) COPYRIGHT 2002 STEPHEN PHILLIPS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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