The battle of the bulge

BOY, it’s been hot, and thus it was that the other evening as I was sitting on
the sofa watching Medical Detectives, I sought relief from the heat by unbuttoning my shirt and baring my torso to the elements.
Doris was in the kitchen banging pots and attempting to create something edible from a scrag end of an old sheep neck, and when she came back into the lounge, she checked out my exposed belly and said something like, “So, when’s it due? When you last had an ultra-sound, did your ask your gyne if it was a boy, a girl, or just one humongous fart?”
“Ha, ha,” I said, but I have to admit that it sometimes looks like I’ve hidden a soccer ball under my shirt. I
could be for soccer ball manufacturers what the Michelin Man is for tyres. Some shirts that I could comfortably
wear three years ago gape open between the buttons across my belly. It was about three years, seven months and two days ago that I gave up smoking and began to pack on the weight.
I wonder if there’s a known medical reason why the weight targets the belly as a resting place? And from what I’ve read, it’s not only not smoking that has sponsored my boep but, like hairy ears, also my age.
But the big question is: do I care?
Not really, in truth, but I thought that to keep Doris happy I’d look into some flab-beating exercise programmes. In truth again, there’s a better chance that I am going to win the Lotto than sign up for, say, a boot camp outdoor exercise group.
Are they crazy? This boot camp lark I’m told resembles a military get fit exercise like GI Jane but without the bluestone. This is high intensity stuff. I am reminded that 30-odd years ago when I joined Dad’s Army at Northern
Natal Commando, we were excused the traditional boot camp drills, probably because of the heart attack risk.
Nothing’s changed, I’d say.
There’s a programme called Functional Fitness which as I under stand it, and I don’t, sort of assists you to
do “everyday activities”, and another called CrossFit which aims for 10 kinds of fitness – “cardiovascular and
respiratory, stamina, strength, flexibility, power, speed, coordination, agility, balance and accuracy”. I dunno, I just want to lose my belly, not fly the bleeding space shuttle.
Then, you see, there’s the option of doing martial arts, you know, judo, karate etc, and in our crime-ridden society this could kill two birds with one stone. Next time an urban rodent tries to mug me in Mark Street, not only will he be attacking a boepless old toppie but a Bruce Lee clone, a Chuck Norris, admittedly with a dodgy back but a Chuck Norris none the less. Nah, not for me.
Some go for a personal trainer who oversees your programme, but I dunno, I associate personal trainers with
the rich and famous, with leg warmers and sweatbands, trendy water bottles, museli for breakfast and regular bowel
movements. Nah, not my scene.
Dancing can apparently be an exercise programme including something called “step aerobics”, and I’m told they’re great fun. I dunno, the little I’ve seen of this sort of thing it just seems a bit too “trendy” to me, a bit
too wholesome, like you do the exercise and then sip on a chardonnay. Nah, not for me.
So, weight training is an option, and I’m told that nothing is as effective as weights for reshaping your body.
Again, I have reservations. I have visions of a prison yard in America with all these testosterone-charged dudes
pumping iron. Nah, sorry.
Now endurance training in some way appeals to me – you know, cycling, running or swimming. But a couple of things puts me off. Like why do cyclists, who are probably quite normal people with normal lifestyles, why do they think it is necessary to wear that clothing that they do when they go for a ride? Seriously, there’s nothing that looks more like a real wally than a dressed up cyclist. And swimming – there is no way that I would now wear a speedo, finish and klaar. And running with my dodgy hips and back would do more harm than good, so that’s out.
There’s a programme called highintensity interval training, which consists of bouts of exercise from four to 30 minutes – short intense workouts (like sex?). Apparently it’s a good way to burn kilojoules. I wonder, living
on the second floor of a block of flats, I climb 40 stairs every day, does that count as high-intensity interval
training?
And then, of course, there’s yoga and something called Orlando pirates… nie, wag ‘n bietjie, it’s PILATES.
Yoga, as I understand it, exercises your colon and puts you in touch with your inner self, like cool, man, hey dude, far out, you know, and I’ve no idea what pilates is but I’m pretty sure it’s got nothing to do with soccer.
Then, of course, I could buy bigger shirts and not undo the buttons in the lounge while watching television. That could work, hey?