An Exercise In Futility
Illawarra Mercury
Thursday March 18, 2004
JULIO and I were sharing a drink in front of the telly listening to an elite sports star wax lyrical about his diet and health regime.
``My body is my temple," the perfectly toned lad told his interviewer.
``That ees exactly what I haf been telling you .... our temples are our bodies," Julio said, balancing a Cuban beer and a plate of cheese and crackers on his multi-purpose beer belly.
``No, Sweetie, I think he said his body is his temple ... no offence but yours is more like The Block at Redfern," I said.
He didn't even flinch.
``Real men, they do not diet," he said slamming another piece of blue vein into his mouth.
Then he did the unspeakable.
He let his glance slide down my body to my ever expanding midriff.
He then gave me a look that said ``And my little Magda Szubanski, you are hardly one to speak."
``But at least I try!" I whimpered.
I thought of all those horrid power walks up almost vertical hills, the bruises I've suffered from collisions with wannabe Ian Thorpes in the lap pool and the paralysingly boring gym sessions I've endured to stay moderately fit and to turn fat in to .... well, fatty muscle.
I've tried to get Julio to join me at these sessions but he says he is still dealing with repressed memories of a mother who made him walk 15km to school piggybacking his little brother.
As a consequence, his idea of extreme sport is pounding basil and garlic in a mortar and pestle.
There have been occasions when he has tried to adhere to the ``Life. Be In It" philosophy with near tragic results such as the walk around Mt Keira's ring track.
We had barely got from the car to the start of the walk when he staggered to a rock gasping for air with lips turning blue and perspiration beads popping up on his forehead.
``Queek, my pocket," he said with the energy visibly draining from his trembling body.
I went rifling through all available pockets expecting to find heart tablets only to find a half-empty packet of Marlboros.
He grabbed the pack and in a gesture of desperation, stuck two cigarettes into his mouth, lit up and begun to suck back great lungfuls of the heavy smoke.
Several people including a gaggle of Japanese tourists tittered and took pictures as they loped past.
To his credit Julio did attempt the walk but after 10 minutes he decided the curve of the track was making him ``dissy" so we turned back.
``Dun't ever put me through that torture again," he wailed as we descended Mt Keira Rd with him in the passenger seat covering his eyes.
``Flashbacks," he explained shaming me into taking him to the nearest 24-flavour ice-cream parlour.
After that I knew I had to be more inventive to disguise the exertion with some fun activity.
I decided to hire one of those metal detectors we could take to the beach when the crowds had dispersed.
We spent about three Sundays combing short tracts of sand before he backed over the machine in the garage with his ute ... and then rolled forward to make sure the job was complete.
We did, however, end up with 65 in change, 24 bobby pins, two hypodermic needles, four bottle tops and what looked like a Korean War medal.
Just last Christmas I gave him an exercise ball, one of those big brightly coloured rubber balls on which you can do all sorts of aerobic and stretching exercises.
Julio used the downtime during the ads on telly to recline on his back and roll around for some sort of abdominal and lower back advantage.
I was pleased on one level but mostly I had to look away because it conjured up images of two rounded insects in a bizarre mating ritual.
That came to an inevitable end when one day I came home from work to find him asleep like a beached whale on top of the ball. I could only assume his skinny little legs did not have the leverage to get the top half of his body in an upright position. That was usually my job.
Instead of offering a helping hand I kicked the ball from under him, letting him crash to the floor as a symbolic wake-up call.
He merely opened his eyes and groggily asked ``what is for dinner, sugar plum?"
Since then we haven't really spoken of the ``e" word until confronted by this human six-pack on television talking about carbs and proteins and 20km triathalons.
``Did you ever look like that?" I asked Julio wistfully.
He stretched out his right arm in what I thought was a muscle flex to prove he once ran through the tobacco fields of Havana with bulging tanned muscles rippling with every stride.
No. False alarm.
He was reaching for the remote to switch to Alex Pearman and the Wednesday Lotto results.
My celluloid Adonis disappeared and was replaced with a jumble of useless coloured balls.
The story of my life.
Tomorrow John Coomber's Thoughtlines column
© 2004 Illawarra Mercury