Exercising My Right to Be Sedentary
by Angie Brennan
There’s nothing quite like the exhilaration of a two mile run in the chilly
pre-dawn hours of fal. Or so they tell me. I certainly wouldn’t know.
I'm one of those many Americans plagued with that little understood
condition known as exerphobia: fear of exertion. Okay, okay—laziness.
Of course, an aversion to getting up early and plunging yourself into the
wonders of exhaustion, shin splits, and large territorial dogs is easy
enough to understand. What’s hard to figure out is why those of us who
are exertionally-challenged often feel compelled to buy exercise and
sports equipment.
by Angie Brennan
There’s nothing quite like the exhilaration of a two mile run in the chilly
pre-dawn hours of fal. Or so they tell me. I certainly wouldn’t know.
I'm one of those many Americans plagued with that little understood
condition known as exerphobia: fear of exertion. Okay, okay—laziness.
Of course, an aversion to getting up early and plunging yourself into the
wonders of exhaustion, shin splits, and large territorial dogs is easy
enough to understand. What’s hard to figure out is why those of us who
are exertionally-challenged often feel compelled to buy exercise and
sports equipment.
Is this phenomenon similar to the person with a fear of flying who forces himself on a plane in an attempt to
gain mastery over his phobia by confronting it directly? Or is it more like the guy with a fear of heights who is
inexorably drawn to the edges of precipices and windows of very tall buildings, simply for the fascinating
horror of it? If you guessed the latter you are right. Excuse me while I back away slowly from the treadmill.
Fortunately, my equipment graveyard isn’t too extensive. Other than a stationary bike in the basement that
now mostly serves as a clothes hanger, I have a mountain bike deteriorating in the garage.
I bought the bike shortly after returning from a trip to Colorado. One afternoon during that vacation, my
husband and I went mountain biking where I discovered, to my dismay, that it involved riding a bike down an
actual mountain.
When I wasn’t careening down a steep incline, clutching the brakes and breathing angry words against the
loose helmet hammering my skull, I pedaled strenuously but ineffectively uphill until I gave up and walked the
bike up to the next downhill death drop.
I bought a mountain bike after that. Don’t ask me why. Maybe the helmet slamming against my head
temporarily disconnected the anti-exercise gland in my brain. Heaven knows it’s not that I had good memories
of the ride. Not only that, but at the time I lived in Houston. Yes, that Houston. The city with the topography
of a skating rink, only flatter. Maybe I was going to recreate the excitement by going up and down steep
driveways—I don’t remember now.
These days the mountain bike dwells in lonely reverie next to the bag of lawn fertilizer, recalling that glorious
day when it actually left the garage. As a matter of fact, the fertilizer has probably been out of the garage more
than the bicycle.
But to you dedicated souls who faithfully brave the elements and sore muscles to condition your body: I lift a
toast. At least I will as soon as I find a drive-through coffee shop, so I don’t have to get out of my car.
©2005
gain mastery over his phobia by confronting it directly? Or is it more like the guy with a fear of heights who is
inexorably drawn to the edges of precipices and windows of very tall buildings, simply for the fascinating
horror of it? If you guessed the latter you are right. Excuse me while I back away slowly from the treadmill.
Fortunately, my equipment graveyard isn’t too extensive. Other than a stationary bike in the basement that
now mostly serves as a clothes hanger, I have a mountain bike deteriorating in the garage.
I bought the bike shortly after returning from a trip to Colorado. One afternoon during that vacation, my
husband and I went mountain biking where I discovered, to my dismay, that it involved riding a bike down an
actual mountain.
When I wasn’t careening down a steep incline, clutching the brakes and breathing angry words against the
loose helmet hammering my skull, I pedaled strenuously but ineffectively uphill until I gave up and walked the
bike up to the next downhill death drop.
I bought a mountain bike after that. Don’t ask me why. Maybe the helmet slamming against my head
temporarily disconnected the anti-exercise gland in my brain. Heaven knows it’s not that I had good memories
of the ride. Not only that, but at the time I lived in Houston. Yes, that Houston. The city with the topography
of a skating rink, only flatter. Maybe I was going to recreate the excitement by going up and down steep
driveways—I don’t remember now.
These days the mountain bike dwells in lonely reverie next to the bag of lawn fertilizer, recalling that glorious
day when it actually left the garage. As a matter of fact, the fertilizer has probably been out of the garage more
than the bicycle.
But to you dedicated souls who faithfully brave the elements and sore muscles to condition your body: I lift a
toast. At least I will as soon as I find a drive-through coffee shop, so I don’t have to get out of my car.
©2005