Recently, I’ve taken up exercising again. When I was younger, I was very active. I walked, biked and rode horses. When I hit my late teens and early twenties, I took up weight lifting with gusto. I was quite good at it too. I’m sturdy and strong and it allowed me to express those traits while grunting at the same time. I love grunting. Mainly when I have a particularly big poop, but also when weight lifting. It’s a wonderful form of expression. Sex can elicit grunt like sounds as well. We should all grunt more.
Moving on. I realised that the physical activities I was best at did not involve other people. I tried a few exercise classes and absolutely hated them. Quite frankly, if I’m going to have to grunt around strangers who are barely clothed in an intimate setting, to the extent that I’m almost exchanging bodily fluids with them and then have to make small talk and be civil afterwards, I might as well become a street walking whore. At least I’d get paid for it.
Walking was my main form of exercise for years, decades even. It served me well in terms of my physical fitness, but not so much in terms of my feet. I developed quite impressive heel spurs (If I were in a farm yard, I would have been soup a long time ago.) and a condition that sounds more like a political sci fi thriller, called planar fascitis. Essentially, it makes my feet hurt quite badly, especially if I don’t have supportive footwear. Welcome to middle age.
Previously, I lived in a place where good boots and orthopedic supports were possible and even then, doctors wanted to operate. Fuck that. Noone is cutting me open unless crawling has become my only option and even then… In fact, ten years after those doctors wanted to cut me open, I’m still walking. The only problem now is that I live in a place where proper footwear is just not a done thing. It’s far too hot here. Flip flops it is. They aren’t very supportive. My feet hurt again. Walking for exercise is no longer a realistic option. I only walk short distances. Now, I’m fat.
Being someone who likes solitary exercise, swimming worked for a while. A friend even turned me on to underwater headphones with an MP3 player. I could swim in my own little world, relaxed and alone. Well, except those fucking headphones keep falling out. What the fuck? Talk about a first world problem, but still, it was a buzz killer. Then the pool turned green. Even more of a buzz killer.
Fast forward to now. I just discovered that a group activity, which I previously would have avoided like it was a rectal exam, has started on a very small scale, just a few minutes walk from my door step. It’s water aerobics. I really enjoy it and it’s good for my fat body and bad feet. While yes, I do have to be around barely dressed strangers and, as I’m in a pool, I’m most likely exchanging bodily fluids with them and a bunch of other people to boot, there are only a few people in the class. This means that the small talk thing, which is my real issue, is kept to a bare minimum. Maybe my missed vocation was to be a selectively mute street walking whore, except I couldn’t really walk the streets with my fucking bad feet. Never mind.
The problem is that this class is going to grow in numbers. It’s inevitable, it’s haunting me and I’m not sure how I’m going to cope. While turning up to class with a semi automatic in a modern American style grudge shooting has its attractions, it would render the pool as unusable as the green one and thus undermine the whole point anyway. So, today, I am fucking ungrateful for group activities that require people other than myself to participate. The ‘group’ part of group activities needs to fuck off. It really does. I wonder how much I could earn as a selectively mute, fat, street crawling whore. You never know. I might lose some weight.