One of my colleagues exercises five or six times a week. I thought only professional athletes and Hollywood sorts who have to whip their kit off for “artistic reasons” did that. I mean, why would anyone shift about so much when boxsets and Jaffa Cakes exist? Nah mate, bollocks, not doing that.
But…my colleague always looks sparkly eyed, when the rest of us are flagging. Even though she has a dead stressful job, I’ve never once seen her with a face on. She might just be of a naturally sunny disposition compared to my naturally drizzly one, or maybe it’s that exercise is actually, and I can’t imagine how…good for you?
Loads of senior leaders in our sector (among others), are fitness fanatics. I’ve been at conferences where there is an actual scheduled city run at the crack of dawn. I wasn’t tempted. Maybe they’re disciplined with their physical health just as they’re also disciplined in all other areas of their lives? Or maybe they need to invest time and energy in staying healthy and building stamina because their role is crucial? I dunno…
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Unplanned movement
Up until recently I’ve only made myself available to physical activity if I’m assured of a medal, a round of applause, or cold hard cash. The worst exercise of all is unplanned movement for practical reasons - having to walk somewhere in a city, or run to catch a train. I can only submit to exertion if it’s on purpose, and then only partially. But, I’m changing my ways, pals. I’m planning on becoming…I’m sorry, I’m struggling to type the words…An…Exercise…Person.
I’ve joined a posh gym. It’s a dear do, but as I’m studying part-time I’ve scored myself a student card which discounts the gym fees to simply “extortionate” rather than “don’t be daft” rates. And I’ve made some resolutions upon joining:
- I’m not going to use my membership to feel bad about myself if I don’t go. If I bunk off for a bit I will simply perceive myself as a gym-investor.
- When I do go, I’m only getting involved in activities I like - dancing, yoga, getting a facial.
- I’m going to actively seek new athletic experiences. Except cycling. I’m not doing that. I did a spin class once and the saddle was no friend to my nethers, I can tell you. Frankly, I’ve had less invasive smear tests.
Parody of masculinity
In the spirit of aerobic adventure and having recently rewatched Rocky, I thought I’d have a go at a boxing class. I’m torn by boxing. I love a big fight - I don’t mean handbags in a pub car park, I mean the big telly events where the fighter makes the kind of entrance that’d give Liza Minnelli a run for her money.
As a lifelong supporter of the flamboyant, boxing exemplifies my butch-camp continuum theory, where something is presented in such an excessively butch manner that it becomes almost a parody of masculinity. I think professional boxing straddles the tipping point where butch becomes camp. AND I’M ALL FOR THAT: the faux pre-match side-eye, the silky shorts, the embroidered housecoats, the pyrotechnic entrances. I mean you can’t even do boxing without first choosing accessories - a pair of cartoon punching gloves. What’s not to love?
Well, I’ll tell you what…it’s a bit violent, isn’t it? A little bit cave man. Sometimes people are beaten to death as entertainment. There are some questionable racial and class undercurrents to it as well. And it’s the epitome of an other-people’s-children sport. Honestly, if my lad became a professional boxer (he won’t) they’d have to hold me back from clambering over the ropes and threatening to batter his opponent with a piece of wood with a nail sticking out, or an even scarier weapon, my teacher voice. That said, over the years I‘ve had quite a few students whose dodgy future trajectory was completely realigned by boxing training. They learned the kind of self-discipline and respect that I would have struggled to get through to them.
Feeling welcome
I signed up for the class and the thought of it made me nervous. While I embraced the idea of imagining the faces of people who get right on my norks plastered against the punch bags, and giving them a right good walloping, I was a little concerned that as a big unit with no discernible upper body strength I might not fit in. I expected to see a load of beefy blokes growling at each other, or super-fit Instagram foxy types in showy-off outfits and full Kardashian make up.
It turned out everyone was normal, by which I mean different. All ages, physiques and levels of expertise. The teacher was a young, tough looking feller, but when he came over to talk to me before the class started he had the disposition of an encouraging primary school teacher and instantly made me feel welcome.
And I loved it! I’m now three weeks in. I go to classes pissed off that I’m not anywhere else, but by the end I’ve worked off all my classroom stress and feel invincible. Obviously I’m so stiff the next day that I move like I’ve left the coat-hanger in my blouse, but it soon eases up.
I think I’ve found the perfect teacher-exercise regime. Someone call Don King. Next stop, Vegas.
Sarah Simons works in colleges and adult community education in the East Midlands and is the director of UKFEchat. She tweets @MrsSarahSimons
