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Al-Ahram Weekly 4 -10 February 1999 Issue No. 415 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 4 -10 February 1999 Issue No. 415
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Book Fair Economy Opinion Culture Features Living Travel Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters If I have time
By Fayza Hassan
"It is time to renew our membership at the gym," my daughter announces brightly, jumping up and down in anticipation of her low-impact class. She prods my memory on a monthly basis. I have my repetitive answer ready: "I would go with you right now, if only I had time." As always, she is not fooled and insists that I follow her if I am serious about exercising. "You said yourself that you feel better when you exercise," she reminds me. I must have made this unwise comment just before the gym was closing for the holidays. I busy myself with a stack of papers picked up at random and claim that I have to start on this long-overdue article at once. I vaguely hope that I did not already use this excuse last month.
Although I am not yet ready to admit it publicly, the truth of the matter is that I hate sports in any shape or form. I don't subscribe to the athletic culture, nor do I feel better about myself before, during or after physical exertion. I find tennis courts, swimming pools, playing fields and gymnasiums dismal places and the sight of excessively competitive performers extremely depressing. Recently I have tried to enlist my mother's help in condoning my deep aversion to physical activity, but to no avail. "Surely," I told her, "something one hates with a passion cannot be good for you, regardless of what our self-denying society may preach."
She, however, is bent on promoting the benefits of regular exercise -- and a frugal diet to boot. She rides her exercycle every day, she reminds me. "I would no longer be able to walk at my age if I didn't," she says, and she probably believes it.
Her own mother used to travel all the way to Helwan for her mud baths and a spell in the gymnasium; she only stopped when the owner died of rabies, recounts my mother. "Did one of the machines bite her?" I ask hopefully. "Your father was a first-class tennis player until well into his sixties," she asserts sternly. Which brings to mind all the unsuccessful attempts to interest me in sports which plagued my childhood and early adolescence. My parents spared neither money nor effort. I stomped across golf courses and made a fool of myself on tennis courts. I never managed to catch a volleyball nor aim properly at a basket. I was far too heavy to even consider regular ballet and confused the most elementary folk dance steps; but faced with so much good will on their part, followed by such abysmal disappointment when it became clear that I was not on my way to mastery, I could only keep on trying.
I was only saved by the birth of my first child, who provided me with the perfect excuse. "If only I had time, I would join you on the golf course any day," I untruthfully told my sprightly husband. For years we left it at that, until my two daughters, both exercise freaks, began insisting that I too head for the gymnasium. Once more I had to buy the required kit, intended to impart the idea that one is well on one's way to becoming an expert, and headed for the nearest gym. I leapt moronically up and down to mind-destroying techno music, keeping my eyes resolutely trained on the mendacious poster of a statuesque creature implying that her heavenly shape was the direct result of her tenacity. I trod mills, rowed nowhere manically, lifted weights and pedalled furiously. I woke up every morning with an impression of impending doom at the thought of another round of self-flagellation. I wished for a good cold, the flu, an obvious sign of ill-health, and, at a loss, finally fell back on the "tomorrow" approach.
"Are you coming?" asks my daughter impatiently. "I have decided that I want to take up walking," I tell her quickly. She is far from impressed, but I decisively head for the door. For extra courage, I make a plan. Every morning, I'll decide on a place to go and walk there and back. Today, for instance, I'll strike out and pay my telephone bill. Walking is fun. I hum and march to the beat. The footpaths are in a serious state of disrepair, I trip a couple of times and an ill-tempered taxi driver splashes me with dirty water. When I reach the telephone exchange, I am told that it is too late to pay. So what? Walking is fun. I keep humming doggedly, and promise myself to retrace my steps tomorrow. If I have time, that is.
