The Boy Who Loved To Eat

Five a.m. An alarm clock stirs, dazed and bewildered.

Cheek by jowl with the hapless bod lying alongside, ballooning peacefully up and down, the clock grows ever cognizant of his own solitude. Akin to the one rather overzealous partygoer that actually turns up to an event on time, naturally, he soon begins to yearn for more eclectic, more vibrant company. And yet, the only other guest who has bothered to even make an appearance at the Five a.m. show this morning is the luckless fellow wheezing in the corner nearby.

Bewailing the predicament in which he has found himself, he lets loose an impressively galling bellow, like no air-raid siren ever heard by human ears before. Coincidentally, this happens to be just enough to rouse the other chap from his slumber, but in spite of these attempts to kick-start the dawn’s carousing, alas, he is unsuccessful. The guest comes round a tad, decants him a short tipple, and both return to their dream-like languor.

This is, of course, a (feeble) artist’s depiction of hitting the snooze button at cockcrow, and one to which a great many colleagues of mine will undoubtedly be no stranger. Almost all, I hasten to add, presumably, will do this at least once a day if not more often, before rising to clock in the necessary fat-busting hours at the gym ahead of turning up for work.

Now, it is certainly possible that these early starts are a feature of my industry alone, although I strongly suspect that this will be a common case of events for individuals working in more sectors than just my own (banking & finance).

Braving the penumbra is just one example of the innumerable sacrifices we denizens make in our quest to achieve the physical nonpareil.

As a student at Oxford, I would often baulk at the manner in which the Balliol rowers used to willingly don their Lycra on a bleak mid-winter’s morning, primed to take on the unrelenting ebb and flow of the Isis. Gorging themselves throughout the day on a diet of carbohydrates, fats and energy drinks so luminescent a Geiger counter must surely have been lurking on standby, the rowers seemed to have it all. Towering men and women, well-proportioned and with muscles that put ol’ Vladimir Putin to shame, they put their success down to one thing: rigorous exercise on a daily basis.

But most of us, it seems, brazenly eschew any form of exercise at all, let alone exerting ourselves physically every day. No fewer than three weeks ago a study was published claiming that we, and particularly those of us aged forty to sixty, were putting ourselves at a greater risk of heart disease by leading a primarily sedentary lifestyle.

Interested in a thirty-minute workout session at the local Virgin Active? Forget it. How about a refreshing lap of the park? Please, you must be joking. The closest we as a nation come to doing any kind of lap are the laps we make whilst sauntering up and down the aisles of a Tesco Metro on a Tuesday night to do our weekly shop.

The bone I have to pick, in this instance, is not with exercise point-blank. It is with exercise in its extremes; both surplus and deficit; as much with pumping iron as with pumping saccharine milkshakes into our increasingly corpulent and cavernous breadbaskets. Pointing the finger at the deleteriousness of the standard deskbound routine is just one side of the coin, however. Equally vexing in this day and age, if not more so, is the way in which a slavish following of gym buffs seem to be squeezing all the joy out of exercise that could realistically be experienced from being ostensibly ‘active’.

Take last week. Whilst meandering through the back-alleys of EC4A on my way home from the office, I happened to stumble upon a band of cyclists peddling away in perfect synchronicity, pushing their bodies to their physical limits (albeit rather admirably, I must profess). Twas a spectacle to behold, were it not for the fact that the amount of ground actually being covered with each passing second was, in fact, zilch. Nothing. Nada.

I realise I may be in the minority here, but if I know that by the end of my evening cycle I am inevitably going to end up glistening like a Döner on a spit, I would at least prefer to have done my penance in the charming backdrop of my own neighbourhood.

To wave enthusiastically at passers-by as I career down the hill harbouring some of my most favourite haunts. To appreciate the merciful familiarity of my surroundings. To savour every soupçon of the journey; the destination, non-existent amid the confines of my subconscious. The day that I resign myself to the role of ‘hamster on a running wheel’ is the day that I give up spending Christmas day in my pyjamas. Do I want this? Not on your nelly.

The unhealthy obsession that many of us have with health itself is not simply a case of rising early, knocking back protein shakes and coveting the physical beau idéal. It is worryingly more than that. Not that I am endorsing a slovenly lifestyle by any means, but there are cases in which I fear for those who have been bitten by the workout bug.

We often use the phrase “mens sana in corpore sano” (or “a healthy mind in a healthy body”) when we wish to promote the benefits of exercise for one’s mental well-being. But it also works the other way round. In order to achieve the physical goals we set ourselves, we must also treat our minds with the same level of respect and care.

The union of body and mind is not merely important. It is an indispensable, crucial part of everyday life. We have seen the ponderous taboo on mental health discussions lifted in recent times, and yet, our collective infatuation with the human form still remains uppermost in our list of things to worry about in 2017. Well, that and Brexit.

Believe you me, I do understand that a compulsion for exercise can be just as deep-rooted and inherently complex as a fondness for over-eating. And I am no psychologist, mind you. But sometimes this calorie-counting, ab-crunching, protein-guzzling, muscle-bulking, supplement-imbibing folderol of a regime we call ‘healthy living’ just leaves me feeling so darn weary.

I see no point whatsoever in taking umbrage with looking after our bodies; or, for that matter, with eating nutritious fare. As we have learnt from the results of the much-quoted study, referenced above, most of us are in need of a good old-fashioned workout session or two. Not to mention one or two fewer chocolate digestives with our afternoon mug of Earl Grey.

But whenever I find myself making the rather forlorn attempt to characterize the current obsession, bordering on addiction, we suffer for green health foods and punishing workout drills, I cannot seem to get past the image of one figure in particular.

To have it gradually dawn on you that the lifestyle to which we all aspire is none other than that of Popeye.

Another can of spinach, sir? I’d rather have a Snickers, thanks.

Credit to the feature image photographer: https://unsplash.com/@stillsbyhernan