I’m married to a fitness fanatic. As for me, I come from a long line of “recreational athletes” — my family was more into darts, billiards, foosball, and croquet — you know, bar games — as opposed to competitive sports that made you sweat.
So I married a guy whose day is not complete without an exhausting, sweat-dripping, leave-you-sore-in-the-morning workout. That throws a wrench into lazy Saturday mornings in bed and drinking Bloody Marys on the beach at noon. While I’m lounging in the beach chair listening to music, he’s pissing people off competing his little heart out in volleyball.
True confession: I hate working out. No, I mean I really abhor it. So yesterday I tagged along with him to the gym and while he was doing Crossfit (something I aspire to as much as I aspire to dental surgery), I was pretending to be stretching while watching a woman in the gym shadow boxing in the mirror alternating with running fiercely in place. This is when my epiphany came. We are either born with a drive to work out ferociously and with commitment, or we’re not. Clearly, I was not. I did do a few sets of squats which simply meant I could not drink water for two days because I could not “squat” into position on the toilet due to the searing pain in my quads.
I’ve tried to love exercise. I really have. Another true confession: I once hired a hypnotist to convince me that I love to exercise. I should’ve saved that $200 towards my liposuction. It can’t be learned. It can’t be taught. It can’t be hypnotized into us. We have to be born with that drive to sweat and push ourselves to squat and lift through the agonizing pain.
Sadly, like my parents, I’m afraid I’ve also raised kids who would rather shoot pool than sweat through a Tabata class. But someone has to keep Bocce in vogue, right?