I have countless memories of being happily absorbed in physical activity, but always after an arduous ajustment period. It takes me a long time to psyche myself into strenuous physical action. I hate to sweat, to be breathless... I feel vulnerable, foolish, out of sync with my true nature. Of course, once I have tricked myself into surrendering, I immediately reap the wonderful invigorating rewards of being in tone, healthy, blood pumped through with oxygen, adrenaline, and ample testosterone.
But I am easily distracted from this positive self image of manliness and all too quickly tumble back into couch potato, over ripe tomato, a seedy summer squash. If I am what I eat, minus what I manage to lose in cyclic bouts of redemptive exertion, exercise, or the lack of it, will be the death of me.