The dark side of a healthy life

Something happen to people who take the plunge into the ocean of healthy living. Besides the fact that most simply  drown and get washed up on the beach of fat and failure, some actually learn to stay afloat. The ones who manage to control some kind of satisfying exercise regime that fits nicely into the niche between a coach potato and marathon runner.  Other freaks turn into really strong ultra swimmers and they end up as poster children for transformation and the power of the human spirit.

For the few of us who stay afloat, it implies we struggle through a daily sacrifice of sleep, in exchange for sweat and perseverance.  Not mentioning stuffing our faces with everything that is far from delicious. Because let’s state the obvious; if it’s worth eating, it’s gonna make you buy a bigger dress size. So we tend to stick with pieces of cardboard infused with green inspired shit salads because we are actually sad human beings desperately seeking attention.   Continue reading

I thought I was giving birth. To dragons.

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Heartburn woke up me up in the early hours of yesterday.  Just like the burglars who broke into our house a week before.  (That’s another story)

At first I thought it was my Mother-in-law’s cooking as we had dinner there.  Turned out it wasn’t because my heartburn was so severe there was no way it could be caused by a mortal’s cooking.  It made me think I was able to give birth to fire-breathing reptiles, turning into Phaleesi, the Father of Dragons. Continue reading

Gym will never be the same again.

I’ve been busy.  On all fronts.  And things changed.  Drastically.

This week marks the first time that I was able to persuade Princess to join us in our routine torture sessions before the sun shows his friendly, fat face.  (I’m still moderately intrigued as to why she suddenly agreed to join us but in order to protect my sanity, I’m not going to dwell on that too long.)

Selling the concept of training in the morning was far easier than the execution thereof.  It took a lot of persuasion to finally get her to wake up and get dressed in some kind of sports attire.  Think ‘trying to fit and elephant in a mini cooper’.  Not that I’m insinuating she’s fat because she definitely is not.  She’s not even overweight.  Besides wouldn’t I be an awful parent if I called my daughter an elephant?  Even though she laughs like Heffalump.  I’m getting side-tracked… Continue reading

Gym bingo (or People aliens should probe and/or vaporize first…)

Aliens near a UFO

Aliens near a UFO October 1, 2000 as per http://www.dailymail.co.uk

Yes I’m a member.  Of a gym.   Humans who obviously doesn’t have a life. Some might even say I belong to a weird cult who gets up every morning and worship the gods of fitness by offerings of sweat and fat, generated by too much tofu, kale, tuna, brocolli and all other tasty treats.  A sub-culture chasing an unattainable dream of creating better versions of ourselves, with an elusive six-pack tucked away under layers of desperation and vanity.

Or maybe we just prefer to be able to climb a flight of stairs or walk through an average sized mall without feeling like the oxygen supply to our lungs have been cut off permanently.

The truth is that I need this moderate commitment to fitness if only to prevent me from killing some of my coworkers with a stapler.  Or a computer screen.  Or my frigging SUV.  It’s my therapy. Continue reading

When showing respect becomes disrespectful

There are many different ways in which society shows respect towards the elderly. I’m not referring to hiding dentures or changing the year on their calendar.  Even though it was hilarious.  I’m talking about gestures of respect that are unique to specific cultures.

Down here in Africa, Afrikaans people have been taught to address the elderly with “Oom” (male form) or “Tannie” (female form).  It’s roughly translated into “Uncle” and “Aunt”.  But it’s not only used for drunk relatives you want avoid at a family reunion. It’s also used when addressing a geriatric.

And that’s a very disrespectful, shitty gesture. Continue reading

As long as it comes with a diet soda

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Don’t confuse determination with desperation

The road to fitness is a lonely one.  A jungle where muscles grows scarcely and with great difficulty among the roots of perseverance and determination.  Where waterfalls of fat are draped over cliffs of protein stacks, scattered along the river of sweat.  It’s a narrow, winding path with many obstacles.  It leads you over and under and around dumbbells, barbells, treadmills, water fountains, headphones, playlists, guy nipples, yoga pants, public showers, nakedness and douche bags. It’s a treacherous path, not meant for the fainthearted or the weak. Or normal. Continue reading

Mother knows best

I took up jogging because I didn’t think waking up at the crack of dawn was sad enough. I felt inadequate being just one of a selected few, who voluntarily go to the gym every weekday before the birds start chirping.  I simply wanted more.  Running in the afternoon completed the look I was going for: Desperate and pathetic.

The truth is, I entered a race.  This implied training was necessary.  No, I didn’t lose a bet. And no, it wasn’t a dare. Why then? Because I am a raving lunatic.  Who else would choose to run for 10 km non-stop in the middle of nowhere?

One thing you must know about me is that I never do anything half-arsed.  I will endevour to finish everything I start with so much energy and vigor, that my sweat and determination would be considered a prohibited substance at the Olympic Games. (I don’t bottle my determination but my sweat is for sale on Bid or Buy.)

Since I’ve taken up running, I’ve become aware of a whole new brand of aches and pains. It happens when you start using muscles you never knew existed.  Especially the small ones supporting your joints.  Normal people would take notice the moment when their bodies start screaming agony! as a warning that they’re hurting.  I’m not normal. I’m committed to the point of being obsessive.   It makes me a very understanding person.  Just ask my kids.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I win anything, I’m not great.  I just like to commit 158% to everything I do.  It used to be 200% but I’m starting to subtract my age from my expectation.  During said race I injured my ankle.  I still managed to finish though.  Some people call it mind-over-matter, I call it old-age-and-stubbornness.  The slight injury turned into “it’s a little sensitive” a day after I completed the race.

The following week I was preparing for the next race.  I think there must be some indirect relationship between fitness and common sense. During one of these sessions, where I became even more stupid, the “it’s a little sensitive” turned into mild discomfort.  I still didn’t quit.  I’m a man.  And by now, a big idiot.  When the mild discomfort turned into me not being able to walk, I thought it a good idea to take a break.

I actually enjoy running.  I was sulking for having to sit out for three weeks.  I finally decided I’ve had enough.  F*ck the ankle.  The Wife suggested I take another week off, just to be sure as she self-diagnosed me with a sprained ligament.  I ignored her advise and had a great time on the road. I ran like the wind.  Or at least, a very strong fart.

All went well, until I stopped.  My little discomfort was back.  With a vengeance.

An hour later it felt like someone was stabbing my foot with a flaming, hot rod.  Two hours passed and I found myself alone in the bathroom.  I think I cried. Pain makes one very delirious.  I was trying to hide the fact that I destroyed something beneath my knee.  Seven hours later I still couldn’t get down the flight of stairs and the Wife was starting to look for me. I knew my game was up.  It was time for confession.

The doctor and x-ray guy diagnosed the source of my agonizing pain as a serious inflamed tendon, causing extreme pressure on the nerve, causing me to consider amputation as a wonderful solution.  And the cure?  An injection with a needle that would make a horse shit his pants and no running for another two weeks.  As per Wife’s suggestion.

Wife never uttered the dreaded words: “I told you so.”  But with females words are unnecessary.  It’s all captured in a look. And the look on her face said: “Mother knows best.”

PS – I haven’t taken up jogging again.  It’s been two months.  And now Winter is coming at a speed The Flash would never reach.  I still manage to drag my body out of bed every morning and that makes me miserable enough for the time being.  

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