Sweating on the blues

RECENTLY I’ve taken to walking to work.

It’s a nice, 45-minute jaunt that always starts out pleasantly and ends with me sweating and loathing the fact I’ll have to do the same thing to get home.

I started doing this because subeditors – unlike journos who are in and out of cars and traipsing around town – don’t get out much.

In fact, we’re the faceless lot who draw pages, fix errors and seldom leave our computer screens.

Our workload is just as demanding, leaving little time for exercise.

Hence my endeavour to save fuel and walk to work.

I’ve been reading about exercise improving your mood, which was an extra bonus for me.

You see, I haven’t been a bundle of joy lately.

I know, I know. I’m smiling in my picture and when I look at the grand scheme of things, I have nought to be depreseed about.

Yet, I’ve been feeling lacklustre.

So when reading an article on just how great exercise can be for your mood, I had to suppress the desire to tear it up and take some of its advice on board.

Here’s a mathematical equation for you: if I walk for 45 minutes twice a day, three days a week and use my ab-roller twice a week for 10 minutes, then where the hell are my endorphins?

Where is this sense of elation I’m supposed to achieve by revving up my metabolism?

Supposing that I’m not doing enough – how much do I then need to obtain euphoria? And does one’s level of moroseness affect the immediacy of mood-enhancing exercise?

I haven’t exactly witnessed women high-fiving each other after a workout at the gym.

Some give a weary smile as if to say “thank God that’s over” or spend 20 minutes at the water fountain.

But they don’t cartwheel out to their cars.

I’m beginning to suspect the whole “exercise stimulates positive energy” theory is enjoyed only by those nuts who dedicate an inordinate amount of time to physical activity – something not quite possible for a common subeditor.

Some say pets are good therapy. It must be something to do with all that unconditional love.

But our pets mustn’t have got that memo.

What I have found to help improve my mood is another theory that was undoubtedly developed by major chain stores – retail therapy.

Okay, fitting rooms may be a form of torture but carrying bags of new clothes, matching shoes and a handbag out to the car will always bring a smile to my face.

But there is only so much shopping my wallet can handle.

My brother – the enlightened one – said his wife, who had been feeling flat, had had a couple of sessions of reiki.

“It really worked. I’ll let her tell you.”

Wife hops on the phone: “It really works. You’ve got to do it.”

My brother is in the background, making plans for me to go to reiki.

Though it’s a very generous gesture, I can’t help feeling about eight years old, letting my older brother sort my life out for me.

“Tell him I promise to go, he doesn’t have to arrange it for me,” I tell his wife.

“Alright. But he won’t listen…”

So it seems I have a free reiki session awaiting me at some unknown location today.

By the time you read this, I could be flat out on some table and seeing visions of mountains and treetops.

Apparently that is what can happen with reiki.

All I can say is at least I’ll be lying down – reiki doesn’t require a workout and I won’t be breaking into a sweat.

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