Exercising My Right to Sit Around

I've decided that my complete lack of interest in exercise, my 'sedentary lifestyle' (read: sitting at my computer, sitting on the couch, sitting at the dining room table, sitting on any available surface, sitting, sitting, sitting), and the extra weight I carry around, roughly equivalent to a third grader, maybe aren't such good things. I've been overweight for a number of years (Is there something other than a number of years?) and I've tried dieting with Weight Watchers online.  I lost seventeen pounds over about nine months.  Notice that I specify seventeen pounds, not "about fifteen pounds." When you lose weight, you want credit for every last ounce.

If you don't know how Weight Watchers works, you are given a certain allotment of points per day, about enough to satisfy a cat, and which are assigned based on caloric content, fiber, etc. You're also given floater points for the week to spread about as you wish, and you can create extra points by exercising. Say you're putting together your lunch. A bowl of lettuce is zero points, add salad dressing and it's two points, add the croutons and avocado that will make it tasty and you're up to twelve points.  Throw on the chicken for protein (protein's good, right?) and you're somewhere around sixteen points.  Add the roll and butter you really, really want and you're no longer able to eat dinner that day, just stare longingly as your cat gets to eat her kibble.

My approach to Weight Watchers was kind of like playing horseshoes, I just wanted to get close to my points allotment, I didn't care about getting a ringer.  Despite my failure to follow the rules, I did lose weight.  Then it took just about a year of cupcakes and ice cream to put it all back on.  Here it is on my hips, butt, stomach, and thighs, all smiling up at me, silently blaming each other "I didn't know sundaes were full of calories." "Me neither.  I think the stomach should have known." "Well, I say the brain should have stopped us." "Don't point fingers at me, the mouth had a role, too!"

And I hate exercise. I think of exercise as time I could be reading, cooking, watching a favorite show, or pretty much doing anything other than getting sweaty and having to take a shower and change my clothes.  Despite its kryptonite-like effect on my soul, I've tried to exercise in recent years. Then my body teams up with my soul to remind me of old injuries and to protest all this movement shit.

I tried yoga: the stretches messed up my back.  I tried a very fun aerobic class with light weights: it messed up my leg.  I even went to one session of chi dong, which is sort of like not moving at all, and it screwed up my back, too. My doctor sent me to physical therapy, which made me worse, and it was only when I quit doing the p.t.'s wimpy little rubber band stretches that my body settled down and quit complaining. My soul's still not sure.

Now I've taken a bold move: I've hired a personal trainer.  This ought to be fun.  Wait until he encounters my IBS. Stay tuned.