Confessions of a lapsed exerciser

By Catherine Lloyd Burns

updated 8:24 a.m. ET Jan. 2, 2008

Twenty-five years ago, my ass was round and high, like the cotton they sing about in Porgy and Bess. I worked out back then, vigorously. I turned down invitations to picnic in Central Park, missed seeing Kurosawa films at art houses and denied myself dates with cute drummers all because I would never skip the gym. It was my opinion that anyone who did not exercise for at least two hours a day was a jerk. Then again, I was 19. What did I know?

I don't work out anymore. At all. It's quite possible that if the exerciser I was back then met the slacker I am now, I would kick my own ass. But my daughter is only at school until 2:45 p.m. during the week, which means I have 6 hours and 15 minutes each day to fill the cupboards with groceries, cook, clean, shower, do laundry, tidy up, earn a living and exercise. It turns out that I'm the jerk who can't get it all done.

The first thing I gave up was exercise, but I was still overwhelmed and behind schedule. I needed more time, so I carefully examined my life: Obviously, we could not forgo food or clean underwear; my bathing routine was down to the bare minimum as it was; and I did the least amount of housework possible. I looked at my days from every possible angle. I agonized. And then, suddenly, it was clear — the only thing to cut back on was being nice to my husband. We have a good relationship, so I didn't keep my decision from him. I said, "Honey, I have so many things on my list. I have to stop being nice to you. It simply takes too much time and effort right now."

At first, not being nice to my husband was relatively easy. I was out of shape and pudgy anyway, and, in the pursuit of efficiency, my showering and shaving had dwindled to the point of my feeling furry all over. I didn't want him to touch me, and I didn't want to touch him, lest he get any ideas. I rationalized that the trade-off for our lack of physical intimacy would be getting more done. But the situation was depressing. And depression, I knew, would eventually cut into my productivity. Plus, I started to feel bad for my husband. A friend said, "I think you should start exercising."

It shouldn't have been hard. After all, my husband, daughter, two cats and I share our apartment with a 7-foot-long, blond-wood machine known as a pilates reformer. I lived with it when I was single; at one time, it was my best friend. My husband has never been crazy about the thing — something about it taking up half our square footage. Even I admit that it resembles a modern Danish version of a medieval torture device, complete with ropes and pulleys. Worse, I haven't climbed aboard for five years, except to dust something behind it.

So I decided to join a gym. When I told my husband, he wasn't encouraging. "You can't even get yourself on that damn contraption, and we trip over it every day! The gym is four blocks away. Will you go?" He had a point. But my heart needs aerobics. My body needs to get strong. I gamble on a one-month trial membership.

INTERACTIVE January Jumpstart calendar: New year, new you Make 2008 the year you finally shape up. Throughout January, muster your motivation with our daily tips.

I discover I don't like the gym. It's beyond me how I could have spent so much time in one when I was younger. Thanks to the glories of modern living, I am running in place on a machine that simulates outdoor activities, while listening to assaultive music, under unflattering lighting, beside all the mothers from the park I usually avoid. Still, I try to make polite conversation, usually along the lines of "Hi! How are you? How's Ethan? Really? You bought another apartment? No kidding! Yup, we still rent. I know, we should buy, but we can't afford a place big enough for the pilates machine." It's enough to make me wish I lived in a time when people got their exercise by farming and churning butter.

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