I’m in my mid-20’s now and with that “I’m a quarter way to a century” realisation, a few things need to change. Most notably, how I treat my body.
I’ve always been fortunate enough to be a tall, fairly lean person. Growing up I was happy to play any and every kind of sport, except squash eeuw, just to avoid being home to clean and wash dishes. Sport was a place of escape – from chores and making tea for my mom. I played hockey, which I was fairly good at. I was in the U12A hockey team and highly respected. Then I turned 13 and realised I had little to no hockey talent, which is just a meaner way to say there were hundreds of girls who were just better at it than me.
I continued to play, languishing in the C-teams, basking in the sunshine of mediocrity and “playing for fun, not the result.” I turned to books, and became a competent library monitor. Later on in my teens someone recognised that I was super tall and suggested that netball needed to happen. And it did. Problem was I was awkward tall and not ruthess netball player, slayer of goal attacks tall. I again became a consistent contributor to C and D teams, playing as Goal Defence. I was using the skills God gave me (blocking balls from short girls, with the ease and disdain of swatting flies). I was in my element.
So playing sport every week, and being, you know, a growing teenager, meant I had some semblance of fitness. Couple that with a strong metabolism and a naturally long body, and life was a breeze.
In varsity, I joined the campus gym and walked everywhere (thank you Grahamstown), so even though my diet was poor (thank you box wine and dubious res meals) I was able to still keep at it.
When I started working at 22, living alone and enjoying the finer beverages in life, I realised my body couldn’t cope with all the good times I was inviting it to. I was driving everywhere, avoiding all physical activity, preferring to play with Woolies Tin Roof Ice-Cream and curries instead of spin classes and yoga.
Now I’m here, at a crossroads. I’ve decided to join *bites fist* the gym. And you may think, urgh, look at her. How fleeting and New Year’s Resoultion but 4 months too late this all is, but I’m serious now. I want to wear crop tops goddamit, and of course look after my health and heart etc. I want to have some kind of endurance so that when Im in a situation where endurance is needed (lacklustre Comrades Marathon dreams and a zombie apocalyse – shoutout to Zombieland), I’m prepared.
And cute boys who are able to carry you up stairs without breaking a sweat when you’ve fallen asleep on the couch also reside at the gym, so there’s that fun element.
All I want is a positive story to tell.
Join me on my journey. I’m tomorrow’s future, so I guess I should start making plans to make it there in one piece.
PS: The Crop Top Diaries – a way to keep myself on track and be held accountable. If you see me falling off the horse, feel free to call me out on it, or just bring wine and ice-cream to analyse where I went wrong.