I get obsessions sometimes. At one point it was eating Ben & Jerry's through bad chat shows. Another time, it was a Greek boy with lovely long eyelashes. I have even been obsessed with cooking with chickpeas. That was a pretty boring obsession, as far as obsessions go. Whenever I have one of these little hobbies, I find them all-consuming. I suppose I am a bit all or nothing and when you're as easily influenced as me, it can be dangerous.
My new obsession is health and fitness. This still surprises me, as I eat more than anybody else I know and have a passion for anything vaguely chocolate-y. For some reason, for over a year now, I have been a bit of a fitness freak. It's alarming for my friends and family, who are used to me moaning about having to walk the ten minutes to the bus stop and living on a diet of sandwiches and chips. But I am the most alarmed. It's like my brain is trapped inside a healthy person's body — and it is not happy. It is screaming out for me to shun training, open the biscuit tin and switch over to Oprah. My body has a mind of its own and instead, grabs a banana and my gym bag and heads out for three hours of cardio or strength workout or something horrible like that
It's like an odd sort of torture that I am inflicting on myself — like a dare to see how far I can push myself. I have signed up for a walking marathon, Pilates classes, a running club, a swimming club, four yoga classes a week and several training runs. I have also just signed up for a half marathon. I can't explain why. The night I signed up, I had nightmares about it. I have six weeks to get race-fit and without any kind of enthusiasm for doing this, I'm not sure how it's going to happen. I have visions of my limp, lifeless body staggering over the finishing line after everybody else has packed up and gone home. I'm no athlete. I'll probably be too late to even claim the medal that all finishers receive.
But the gauntlet has been laid down and now I must train like a crazy person to make sure I don't collapse at the seventh mile. Another worry I have is that I appear to be developing another, lined obsession; running literature. I buy all the running magazines and I have even bought a book, Born to Run. Unfortunately, ultra marathons come up a lot in these magazines and in this book. For those not familiar with the concept, an ultra marathon is anything over the 42,000 that is classed as marathon distance. They are defined by their horribleness and often have scary names such as "Ironman". I fear I may start to imagine I am fit or insane enough to compete in one of these. If I start to muse about whether I should do one of these, please, please arrange to have me sectioned for my own health.
My note to self for this week is: Gaby, stop it. You are not sporty.
