I am underachieving whore who spends a good part of the day wearing elasticised pants. This is not only sad, but perilous. When your daily commute is as long as the plod from bed to caffeine and your haute couture Cotton On, you can quite easily pork up.
Occasionally, a sense of civic obligation gets the better of me and I squeeze myself into a frock. In order that hope does not drain out of me like DNA from a cheap prophylactic, I say things like “Damn dry-cleaners” when the seams come undone. I’ve acquired a great gift for delusion where body fat is concerned.
Of course, you can only dupe your chunky self for so long. Eventually, a nasty grandmother or photographer will shriek the fat truth. In my case, it was the wife.
I found myself configured in the topmost half of the perversion commonly known as a ì69î. As I, prone, moved my rear end toward the face of my beloved, I heard a series of beeps. She was, rather justifiably as it turns out, emitting the warning signal made by trucks and other large transit vehicles in reverse.
I am not in the habit of documenting myself naked. However, on this occasion, I made like an online dating cougar and committed my flesh to binary code. Heavens. It’s a wonder the wife didn’t have to roll me in flour before locating the wet spots.
I didn’t look good.
Call me fatuous. Accuse me of easy surrender to the thing concerned ladies like to call ìBad Body Image. But, the fact was, these jiggly jpegs just bore out my suspicions. Viz. that I had bingo wings that soon would rival any hideous Before shot in a dietary supplement ad.
My GP confirmed my fears. The knowledge that I was inching toward diabetes and a life of shopping at Maggie T fused with vanity and I determined to rebuild my hotness.
Vigorous physical activity not only promotes fuckability but it tends to make you feel good and, according to nearly everyone with a degree, is even more important than diet in staving off a range of diseases.
The frequency and duration of exercise is unclear. Estimates are a mix of science, common sense and best guess. Current US recommendations stand at 30-60 minutes daily of moderate to intense exercise. Our own Physical Activity Guidelines suggest the same.
Personally, I need an hour each day to keep the wobbliness at bay. Iíve also found that the evidence-based conclusions of sports medicine are kinda right. That is, a combination of cardio and strength training prompts the best results. So, running for an hour wonít work as well as a more circuit based approach.
Diets, let it be plainly said, do not work. Have all the high colonics, protein drinks and bulimia you want; eventually youíll crash into a transit vehicle again. If it ainít sustainable and, to some extent, fun, it ainít gonna work.
Moreover, if it comes at a cost and involves you ingesting additives, the likelihood that youíll turn into a personnel carrier increases. If itís energy rich, nutrient poor and processed, eat it as often as, say, Katy Perry eats vagina. To wit: once every five years. And then only when the boys are looking.
Move more, eat less, have lots of plants matter.
It has now been four years since the GP pronounced me fit, the girlfriend pronounced me hot and just as long since Iíve had an arse like a transit vehicle.