Exercise and the art of Being Attractive

Today I was going to write a blog about how I am failing quite spectacularly in the art of looking attractive while exercising.

I run on my lunch break. I don't run for very long, or very well. In fact, for as long as I can remember, my friends have made many jokes over my running 'style', or lack of. 'Lollop' would be a better word. My arms and legs flail all over the place, doing everything in their power to hinder any physical aerodynamics that might have aided my speed. But on most days, as a preferable alternative to sitting in the office, I don my rather unattractive PE getup and head out, come rain or shine (although my enthusiasm varies greatly, but stepping out in miserable weather really does highlight to me how little I want to sit in the office for the duration of my lunch).

My PE gear consists of various shades of charcoal grey layers. In decency (as in how much of my body it requires) it is the polar opposite of my PE gear that I had to wear to school (I remember being forced into gym class in a white t-shirt - which apparently was not supposed to be long enough to cover my knees so I was 'informed' - and royal blue, extremely tight, gym knickers as was standard and perfectly decent apparently for a mixed set of eleven year olds vaulting over various pieces of equipment) but in attractiveness, it is about on the same level.

Since entering the world of exercise for exercise's sake, my PE gear has largely consisted of clothes that were once 'going out' tops, but are now oversized, stretched, shapeless sacks and faded trousers (although I have a pair of very small shorts that occasionally see the light of day in the height of summer, coupled once again with a t-shirt which is long enough to cover my knees). I used to dance, 'elegance' *ahem* first, exercise second, although memories of a turqouise catsuit and sparkly bolero that I was forced to wear as a substantially proportioned 15 year old hint that my get up wasn't any more attractive.

I recognised quickly, through varying degrees of quality of sports centres and the patrons that frequented them, that perhaps there was a whole world of sportswear out there, some of which might even make me look a little less like the substantial fifteen year old I used to be (yes, I am still getting regularly ID'd, and I am extremely familir with watching the pubescent shop assistants examine my date of birth and attempt to figure out how old that makes me, give up and serve me dubiously anyway, even though I am 24).

But while I will sacrifice my time to exercise (and actually quite enjoy it. At times. Well, it is as a preference to making rollovers), I refuse to make myself attractive whilst doing it. I sweat. I lollop. But I believe that maybe I am being offensive to the public eye. I run alongside The Beautiful People. People who have stamina, who have a Running Posture (whatever that may be). People who not only run, they invest in their running.

I said I was going to write about how I am failing to be attractive while exercising, and the reason that it was supposed to be past tense (which it clearly isn't), is because while I was running and immersed in my rather dull internal monologue that was rattling around my brain, flitting between my marmite and cucumber sandwich that awaited me at the office, the costings which I had yet to invent and what it might be like to be Dave Grohl, I tripped over rather spectacularly.

It was a slow motion moment John Woo would have been proud of (minus the double guns and attractive filters). As I stumbled (over a glitch in the concrete even a microbiologist would have struggled to locate), I had a moment where I thought 'I'm going to recover from this, I'll trip and just carry on running', but then came the realisation.

I fell. First my knees, which I skidded on for a little while before I managed to put my palms out to save me from further damage. My hands buckled beneath me and down went my shoulder.

Then my face broke. You know the moment where a child's face contorts into The Face Of The Devil before they begin to wail like a banshee? Yep that'd be mine. I could feel it colapsing into what was due to be a spectacular outburst.

But I had the sense to look around. There were runners approaching, businessmen on their lunch. So I just got back and carried on in a sort of limp-jog back to the office where I ate my marmite and cucumber sandwich and pondered on the pain and humiliation I had endured in an effort to maintain some sort of vaguely toned physique (toning which is currently very vague indeed).

I always thought it was more painful to diet. I live for my food (all 7 items that a non-dairy eating vegetarian can easily eat without stomach cramps). I still have terrible memories of a 24 hour famine I endured for charity (never again). But now I am in doubt.

So I am now going to heat up a can of 1%-fat-tasteless-lacking-in-any-sort-of-enjoyment-or-satisfaction-yet-not-inducing-physical-pain-soup.

And then I'm going to weigh up which is worse.

I have a strong feeling, however, through all my doubt induced from today's pain and humiliation, tomorrow I will be donning PE kit and setting out for further indignity.