I turned 30 last month, and – naturally – spent the final stretch of my 20s thinking about all of the things I wished I’d done differently. During therapy sessions, I’d go on extended metaphors involving boats, tides and storms, which confirmed my long-held suspicion that I am definitely not a poet at heart. Amid all of the introspection, however, one theme did seem particularly pertinent: exercise, or the lack of it in my life.
Something (perhaps the slight creak my right hip now makes on a regular basis) was telling me that I needed to do more fitness, and, by “more”, of course I mean “any at all”. And so, here I am, declaring that 2023 will be the year I get over my fitness phobia, the albatross I’ve been dragging around since my very first day at primary school.
