MONDAY morning. The alarm goes off and - oh, God, kill me now - I have to get up at this unattractive hour and pull on sweatpants and a singlet so I can stumble around the house picking up things I should have packed the night before.
Drink bottle, makeup,
towel, hairdryer ... and it's time to go already. I'm heading for the car in bare feet because, even though the rest of the family can get ready on time, I'm doomed to be forever disorganised and so have to sort out my shoes and how I'm going to fit everything in my bag while I'm in the car.
There are those awful days when I forget my iPod and have to listen to the same remixes as everyone else who is there, but today isn't one of them. Today I am organised. Relatively speaking.
On to the cross trainer I go. The aim is 20 minutes, but today I'm tired, I'm always tired, so I give in to the urge that starts at five minutes and stop around 15. A trip around the machines - arms, legs, torso. Lunges and squats if I'm up to it.
Then on the mat, clutching a medicine ball and trying to remember if I've done 10 crunches or 12. Three sets is my goal - yet, somehow, I stop after two.
Shower and freshen up. Break out the hairdryer, the root-boosting serum guaranteed to last all day which usually wears off around 10am, the round brush which is meant to reduce static and fly away strands.
Smear Cetaphil on my face and disregard any form of foundation, because I still haven't cooled down completely and I'm going to sweat it off before I even get to school.
Eyeshadow, mascara, lipgloss. Again, I'm the last one out and they're waiting for me in the car.
Yoghurt and cereal for breakfast, and then the long route to school because we have to drop off Mum on the way. I'm tired, always tired, by the time we get there. Does no one understand that my day's already half gone?
Tuesday morning, the alarm goes off again, and - oh, God - I have to get up and repeat the whole ordeal.
And for what? For the illusion of fitness that is quickly shattered? For the health benefits? For my waistband?
I'm just facing facts here when I say that I'm never going to be a star athlete. I loathe the treadmill with a passion that drives me to the elliptical machines every time without fail.
I lack the hand-eye co-ordination for pretty much any competitive sport, in addition to a lifelong fear of the ball smacking into my face (which has happened, I might add). I'm not training for a school team or some sort of personal satisfaction. I suppose you could say that I'm training so I can pass my bronze exam for surf lifesaving, although you could also say that I'd be better off focusing solely on my swimming, seeing as part of the exam requires me to swim x laps in under nine minutes.
Exercise and I tend to have a love-hate relationship. I love it when I'm fit, and I hate it when I'm red-faced and sweating without even the comfort of my own music at seven in the morning, thanks to being sans iPod.
I know it's good for me, and I know that without it my jeans would be a lot harder to fit into. If I want to stay the shape I am and not take on a spherical form, I need to work for it.
So why do I put myself through this - because I need to. Not for a team, partially for a club, but mainly for me, my sanity and my lovely jeans.
Rita Lennon, Year 11, Kaitaia College
MONDAY morning. The alarm goes off and - oh, God, kill me now - I have to get up at this unattractive hour and pull on sweatpants and a singlet so I can stumble around the house picking up things I should have packed the night before.
Drink bottle, makeup,
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