Something has happened to my friends this semester, something that has managed to make me feel both guilty and inadequate. Everyone, and I mean everyone is exercising. Whether Pilate-ing, spinning, or zumba-ing, all of my friends have morphed into gym-bunny versions of themselves. Perhaps I am exaggerating, but being suddenly surrounded by constant talk of aching thighs, calves, obliques and Kegels (which in my opinion can only really be complained about after birthing a large child) has made me realize that perhaps I can no longer get away with excusing myself from exercising. I can no longer avoid exercise for fear of “not getting my readings done,” by which I obviously mean watching mindless television.
My two roommates have both chosen to partake in this craze—one in the form of Pilates and the other in the form of the devil’s favorite pastime, spinning—for which she rouses from her slumber at seven o’clock every Tuesday and Thursday. Even my other house-full of friends do self-titled “roommate yoga” every Saturday afternoon. This week, while the healthy and active youth I call my friends took off to the gym, towels and water bottles a-flailing in their wake, I became wracked with guilt. It was at that point, while wallowing on my window seat cradling a glass of cheap Beaujolais wine, that I decided it was time to finally succumb and sign up for some sort of class.
I have never been a particularly athletic person. My family leaves much to be desired in the sports department—memories of my brothers’ and my childhood will forever be riddled with tears and arguments with my dad on rainy Sunday mornings that inevitably ended unfavourably for us. This was followed by public humiliation on the soccer pitch where I, on occasion, would awkwardly swat the ball with my so-called ‘spaghetti arms’ instead of kicking it like the other kids. Except for skiing, a sport which my student MoneyMaster savings account simply cannot support, and swimming (which, for me, is inconceivable in this weather) there is only one other physical activity that I would say I actually enjoy: Moksha yoga—a hot yoga class which I have sporadically enjoyed. Though pricey, it seems far more appealing than the idea of jogging on black ice in Parc Lafontaine.
With the studio perched on St. Laurent, a convenient 10-minute march from my apartment, I have resolved to go at least three times a week, which, in addition to my 30-minute walk to class and 30-minute walk back should be a reasonable restorative answer to the weekends of student hedonism we “minds of the future” so enjoy.
After my first couple of classes I not only enjoyed feeling healthier and better about myself, but I am now a proud complainer of aching muscles. And, the gratification of commiserating with everyone makes getting up a bit earlier and abstaining from watching MTV while gorging myself on wine and student food more bearable. I would recommend giving an ‘active lifestyle’ a go. Forfeiting an episode or two of nonsense TV shows, or even a reading or two (if you’re a sensible and diligent student like myself) is definitely worth it.
