for bored people

I’ve never considered myself a masochist. Far from it. In fact, if given the opportunity to remain entirely inert and largely unconscious, I am usually the first to snap it up. Napping, eating, sitting entirely still – I would list myself as a fan of all the aforementioned. Yet somehow, through some bizarre force of nature, I find myself prancing around the Sea Point promenade twice a week like a flaming lunatic, performing a ritual known as British Military Fitness. Britain has certainly managed to impart some hideous crimes upon the world at large in its illustrious history – slavery and scotch eggs spring to mind – but this must certainly represent a low point in their global cultural footprint.

For an entire unspeakable hour each Monday and Wednesday, trainers of Nazi-esque proportions inflict upon their class torturous activities such as lunge walks and bench squats, all in full view of intrigued passers-by. Passers-by, I might note, who are not afraid to laugh and point excessively. One might usually be indignant to such criticism, but when you are lying with your legs over your head in a public place, you really don’t have a leg to stand on, as it were.

Having sold the activity so incredibly well over the course of the previous paragraphs, one might imagine that I’d be cowering in a corner, avoiding the promenade at all costs, clutching onto the small shred of dignity that I still possess. You’d be wrong. Instead, I repeatedly attend this abomination of a class, in all my red-faced panting glory, for reasons I can’t quite decipher.

Perhaps it’s the lingering expectation in the back of my head that illogically dictates that, through repeated torture, I might actually start to look like one of the instructors. This is, of course, entirely absurd. I am sure that they end off class, looking bright and breezy as ever, with their perfectly concentric sweat circles, and head off to a delightfully uninteresting meal of lettuce leaves and beetroot or some god-awful health alternative. I, on the other hand, use all the remaining strength at my disposal to haul my aching carcass to the nearest KFC, and indulge in what I feel is a just reward for the punishment I have just undergone. Somewhat counter-productive you might say, but exercise = KFC in my world, it’s just a simple fact of life.

Perhaps it is these miraculous endorphin things of which all these exercise aficionados speak so favourably. I will agree that, after the class, I do feel somewhat elated. I do, however, believe that this is less linked to a rush of chemicals through my body than it is to an overwhelming sense of relief that the damn class is over. Nothing beats that feeling quite frankly.

I will say that it’s a fantastic alternative to psychotherapy. Any pressing issues you had on your mind will be swiftly beaten out of you. You simply won’t be able to dwell on your problems as you’ll be too busy desperately trying to stay alive. It’s like a very active form of meditation…not quite as Zen, but just as effective.

The bottom line of it all might just simply be the fact that I will not drag myself to gym or something equally hideous if I haven’t paid for it. Unless someone is shouting at me and threatening me with public humiliation I just won’t exercise. This is a proven fact. As a result I am handing over large portions of my hard-earned salary to have someone be the conscience that I don’t seem to independently possess. And here’s hoping that, in a couple of months, I will able to report back on my successful attempt to shape myself into some sort of Adonis-esque specimen. Otherwise I’ll sue the fuckers. I’m not paying good money to be tortured and still look like a human potato.

If you feel like joining this hideous endeavour, visit http://www.britmilfit.co.za or head down to the Promenade to have a good laugh every Monday and Wednesday at 18:30…SHARP!