(I should be working on my book.)
On January 2nd I marched into my local physical fitness centre, pushed past the throngs of guilt-wracked folks looking to tone their arms or gut or quads or whatever, and cancelled my gym membership.
Kinda took the poor lady at the counter by surprise. I was swimming strongly against the flow, like a salmon heading upstream, but without the spawning part.
I had heard that cancelling a gym membership was akin, difficulty wise, to scaling Everest, or swimming the Channel, or telling the difference between “Laurel” or “Yanny”. Didn’t turn out that way. I had a ton of excuses — reasons — lined up.
“I hit my goal weight already.” (I’m 102 kilos, about 15 more than I want to be.)
“I’m moving to Bhutan.” (I’d love to, but the internet is terrible.)
“I’ve got a home gym and Michael Ryan is training me.” (Mr Ryan is, or maybe was, Hugh Jackman’s personal trainer, and fairly well known for that.)
“I’ve got three days to live. What’s the point?” (Seemed kind of cruel.)
Turned out to be not that hard at all. I didn’t need any excuses. She had a look at the activity on my access card, took a surreptitious glance at my gut, nodded and handed me the forms.
Free at last.
There’s a reason behind this. I’m all for healthy eating and regular exercise, but I’m 60 this year. I’ll never look like Thor. (I was about to write “…look like Thor again“, but…)
I’ve got a lot of things to do. (Like that book I should be working on.) I don’t have, nor will I ever have, the resources (time, money, skilled trainer) to get “ripped”.
So, New Year, Same Me.
Happy New Year, everybody! (I can say that for another week — get right off of my back about it.) I hope 2020 is a happy year for you all.