I am not sedentary by nature. Sitting for long periods makes me antsy. I walk a fair bit every day, and I walk quickly. I can run for the bus without throwing up afterwards. I rarely get sick. I’m not overweight. But I’ve never understood exercise.
I understand sport. It’s competitive and fun and people assign great meaning to it. Obviously, sport is exercise: but the exercise component is a byproduct, not the main motivation for taking part.
What I’m talking about is exercise for its own sake. Running when you’re not planning to take part in a race or going to a gym when you’re not planning to take part in a bodybuilding competition. I have tried it: a couple of misadventures in a gym. I foolishly let myself be badgered into some sessions with a personal trainer. I even went through a running phase until I tore ligaments in my leg. I didn’t go back to it, and didn’t feel any different afterwards. I couldn’t detect any sign that it was doing me any good.
Plus, I hated it.
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There are theories as to why I felt this way: one is the old stone-age-bodies idea. Because we are designed to be hunter-gatherers – an exhausting way to make a living – our brains encourage us to rest whenever we are not hunting or gathering. You need those calories to survive. Which makes sense, as long as you accept that human physiology has not changed in the last 10,000 years.
Another theory – my own – is that there’s something wrong with me. Or more precisely: I belong to an as-yet-unidentified subset of humans who will never find exercise enjoyable.
Google: why do I hate exercise? You’ll never get an answer. Instead, you’ll be drenched in a tidal wave of judgment, essentially concluding that your non-enjoyment is due to your own moral failing. You’re just not trying hard enough.
You can, if you want to, read thousands of articles from “wellbeing” websites, all stating that “research” has proven how exercise is good not just for your body, but also your mind. With exercise, endorphins, serotonin, dopamine and various other feel-good biochemicals will explode across your system, coalescing to produce a sort of internal, smoke-free bong. You’ll happily stay on that exercise bike to get another hit. Ten more minutes on the rowing machine and you’ll be stoned out of your gourd.
The more breathlessly enthusiastic articles compare it to the euphoria you get from sex or drugs. I’ve tried exercise. I’ve also tried sex and drugs. Nope.
Over the years I have met many people who would attest to the mind-altering effects of exercise: and who were utterly baffled when I told them that I had never experienced this. Perhaps this is an example of groupthink: because everyone else in the gym is screaming about how great they feel, the individual becomes convinced that they feel great too. Or, more likely, there is some profound lack within me. Perhaps I was an endorphin-free baby. I may need injections.
What needs to be established is how many of us there are. Because I’m certain I’m not alone. When January arrives, a large number of people will take up a gym membership, go two or three times and never return. Some of them will change their phone numbers just to avoid any further contact with trainers. They will have discovered within themselves a visceral hatred for exercise; they will have had a dark epiphany about its sweating pointlessness. But they will never verbalise these thoughts. Instead, they will drown in guilt. Because that’s the way they want you to feel.