Schmexercise

It's summer!

Or, for those of us with BMIs over 20, "the season of low self-esteem."

 Each year at this time I dive head-first into a shame spiral about how lax I've been about exercising and "getting back in shape." Actually, to get "back" in shape you have to have originally been in shape, and I'm sure that there's some kind of statute of limitations preventing me from using my senior year in high school as a benchmark to return to. Still, to be fair, a few years ago I had lost a lot of weight and was feeling great:
 

But then I did a bunch of life things like falling in love and working like a maniac and I slowly packed back on some of what I had lost. For a while I didn't notice, but then I had to buy new work pants and shit got serious. I started feeling like Fatty Fatterson and the Chubtones every time I had to wear something other than yoga pants. It was time to (sigh) exercise.

For some people, exercising is a wholly pleasurable endeavor. These folks are inclined towards activities such as repeated marathon running, mountaineering, extreme weight-lifting and the like. They can be identified by their ripped abs and glow of self-satisfied vigor:

 Perhaps you know some of these people; I do. I find them completely disequilibrating to be around. These elite exercise enthusiasts are typically oblivious to the fact that most of us have a love/hate (if not full-on hate/hate)relationship with physical exertion. They just don't get why we might prefer, say, laying in our underwear watching a House Hunters International marathon to hitting the pavement for a 12-miler.

First of all, exercise makes most of us really fucking hot.  And sweaty. This is not a good hot and sweaty, like, say, you'd get in a sauna. This is a soul-killing tsunami of physical misery. Your heart is pounding, sweat beads drip into your eyes and ears and your hair gets all wet and disgusting. Your skin flushes and itches and maybe you even get heat rash hives. I suspect that the exercise fiends enjoy this panoply of sensations. Perhaps they find it invigorating and cleansing. Regular folks, however, do not share this perspective. We know this state of sticky despair is our body's way of warning us to abort mission, and we avoid it at all cost.

Secondly, unless you are already fit, coordinated, and experienced, it is almost impossible not to look like a total asshole while exercising. Between the active-wear that exposes your arm pudge, the complete absence of appropriate technique, and the huffing and puffing that serves as a flashing neon sign advertising your lack of fitness to the world, exercising can be an emotionally debilitating affair. It requires the participant's willingness to be humiliated in the name of health. I experienced this recently when I attended my first Zumba class:

This extent of my embarrassment rivaled the time my mom told our entire house full of Christmas party guests that I had just started my period for the first time.

Lastly, it is often those fitness elites themselves who serve as a barrier to exercise for the average person. We are totally sure that they are judging us. Most likely, many of them are completely unaware that we are even there and are focused instead on their own workout and general awesomeness. There are some, however, that we are certain are utterly consumed with taking stock of our every hyper-extension, grunt, and misstep:

We feel their laser eyes boring down on our flabby bodies each time we pause to take a water break. And we feel small. Bad small, not fit small.

All of this is enough to make many of us give up exercise altogether and resign ourselves to our chubby, winded lot in life. But before you throw in the sweat towel and head for the Ben and Jerry's, I encourage you to try the secret weapon I have honed over years of pride-swallowing fitness endeavors. It has allowed me to keep plugging along in all my sweat-soaked glory through all manner of yoga classes, Nautilus rotations, and even "running" my first 5k earlier this year. I call it the "Wonder Woman," and it's very simple: just pretend you are inside an invisible jet.  No one can see you. No one even knows you are there:

Feel like going home after only doing 11 minutes on the eliptical? No problem, no one will know! Drop a dumbell on your foot and burst into tears? Who cares? You're invisible! Cry your eyes out!

The Wonder Woman, when properly employed, will allow you the freedom to exercise without inhibition. Go ahead and try that pilates class you've had your eye on. Feel free to take up ballroom dancing or tennis. I can't say you won't be hot and sweaty, but shit, you can stop if you want and no one will judge you. You can lay your ass down in the middle of the gym and take a nap if you feel like it . No one will see! (NB:Young people may prefer to call this technique the "Cloak of Invisibility" for a more age-appropriate pop-culture reference. Be my guest. Whatever works!)

The bottom line seems to be that we've all got to move our asses from time to time or risk dying painful, shameful and preventable deaths from horrible diseases that will consume us and make us wish we'd done more step aerobics. So, use the Wonder Woman. Or come up with your own method for staying active. If anyone invents an anti-hot-and-sweaty pill, I'll be your best friend. No joke.