Sweating to the Oldies
by Stephen Phillips
gym gym gym

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.)