Corona Diary: Day 8

Today, Sue decided she wanted to kill me. She didn’t go about it the traditional way. Instead, she insisted I have a go at Les Mills Body Attack.

I think it’s going to be interesting to see how we come out of this quarantine. If you’d have asked me previously whether being restricted to the house for several months would make me fitter or unhealthier I would definitely have suggested coming out of the other side more couch shaped and potato like.

In reality, I think we’re going to see a split between those who come out looking like they’ve just spent six months wasting away on the Space Station, and those who come out looking like a stunt double for one of the Avengers.

Nor do I think it’s going to be easy to predict who will fit into each camp. For clarity, I have chronic asthma, an ITB problem in my right leg which leaves me unable to walk after even a short run, and an attitude to exercise which can be summed up as ‘if God had wanted us to exercise he wouldn’t have given us box sets.”.

Today, however, I looked in the mirror and saw a bizarre image looking back at me. Sue’s been making me do exercise every day. I think it was the beginnings of muscle tone.

So far, Sue has been encouraging me to do Body Balance. For those of you who are unaware, this is basically yoga that’s been rebranded in case the ancient civilization of India decides to sue. However, to add their own twist to it, they’ve decided to focus on the various ways in which you can stand on one leg. I do not stand on one leg well. I barely stand on two legs well, so standing on only one leg feels like a dramatic underutilization of resources. It didn’t start too badly. It was the traditional yoga pose: one leg tucked under your groin, hand pressed together in silent supplication that this will all be over soon. “Beautiful,” said the instructor who, being merely a video recording, couldn’t see that I was now hopping around in my yoga mat, my arms flailing at my sides in an attempt to maintain my balance.

“Now that we’ve found our centers,” continued the oblivious instructor, “why don’t we move onto something more difficult.”

As I was now hopping around the entire living room in an attempt to stay upright, I was inclined to disagree.

“Right,” said my unblinking torturess, “now just swivel to the side, stretch out your arms in front of you and slowly lift your left leg to the ceiling.”

I did so and immediately head butted the ironing board.

“Great,” said the instructor. “You’re doing fantastically.”

There was still half an hour to go.

Of course, with time, it will all get easier. Every time I do one of the classes, it feels like an impossibility, like I’m being asked to do something that is beyond my capabilities and I should just give up and sit back down on the sofa. Every day though, its a little less painful than the day before. The leg remains in the air longer, the hopping becomes less frantic, I remember to sellotape a cushion to the ironing board.

Everything seems strange and challenging when you first start doing it. The trick is not to give up. There are times when you really want to. When carrying on seems inconceivable, when sitting down, lying down, staring at the ceiling and just trying to breathe becomes the only thing achievable in our lives.

We get up again though. We keep getting up, and each time is a little easier than the last, until you are standing in a perfect warrior III, looking like superman, while a lady on a video screen tells you that you’re beautiful.

Until then, we just need to hop frantically and act like we’re beautiful on the inside.