The Unwritten Rule of Exercise.

So I started jogging a few weeks ago. And by 'started' I mean, I went once with my housemate and then feebly attempted it a few times afterwards by myself. Now, there's something you have to know about me and I hope it doesn't destroy our relationship, but, I'm not one for exercise, in fact I never have been. While all the kids were tackling one another in rugby, I was picking clovers on the side of the field and dare I admit, making chains with them to wear on my head (sounds gay - wrong, it's awesome); while teammates were skidding back and forth across the court, whacking the tennis ball from side to side, I was waiting patiently in my square for the moment when I could smash it with all my pre-pubescent strength over the fences, effectively ending the game (they eventually caught on and I'd just watch as my teammate took on our two opponents, crying and moaning with every hit like some B-grade pornstar); and while all the girls and boys playing netball were scoring points and running around on their skinny little legs with those horrible netball shirts on, I was yelling 'If you need! If you need!' from my position in the corner of the court - the corner the ball never went too, and when that didn't work there was always the odd profanity to throw at the opposition (Christian school - worst it got was 'Aim better stupidhead!') or even a cheer if they were lucky (and by cheer I mean the Kirsten Dunst BE AGGRESSIVE type, not the one commonly associated with Christmas spirit).

And they were all surprised when I came out. God. But here is the realisation that I stumbled across while jogging for the third time in my life; not only were my calves burning like a male prostitutes syphilis, but I wasn't as self-conscious as I believed I would be. When you're putting your headband on, tightening your short shorts and pulling your socks up to your knees there's a certain air of nervous excitement, you feel as if you are about to display yourself to the entire world with all your flaws in view of any one of those judging Melburnians and you begin to feel that perhaps you are making a mistake; but you are wrong my friend.

I can't give you any historical detail to what can only be called a natural phenomenon but when you are jogging, there is no judgement coming from the multitude of people and driver's you'll pass; there is respect. Unspoken respect. It's as if they all say to themselves 'man, that jogger is making the effort to exercise and to better his body, so I'll be damned if I judge him for that, even if his shorts are ridiculously short,' and it's this recognition that I like to call the Unwritten Rule of Exercise (see title).

Since discovering this priceless knowledge, kind of like Cate at the end of Indiana Jones 4 - sure my eyes didn't burst into flames, but, better than that, I realised when the tables are turned, I myself sit in awe of those who exercise. I mean, come on guys, who can really be bothered? Those of you who are thinking 'me, you douchebag', well congrats, but the other ten thousand percent of us (that includes those who similar to me, had an exercise stint - infamous for delivering just enough results that you begin to think maybe you could get into a routine, only to find such a thing pales in comparison to watching Sailor Moon till one am, or perhaps living), well, you'll probably understand what I'm speaking of. There are people to respect - like Obama and your friends Dad who is doctor - and then there are people to respect, like Wes Andersen, Tina Fey and, I believe, those who exercise.

So I think you should all give it a try, because on a completely superficial level you get sweet kudos from passerbys and sure, it can add years to your life and save you from slow, terrible deaths but who cares about that anyway!? Oh god, I feel a cheer coming on...

In other news, watch The Life Aquatic to see hilarious and moving genius on screen, then read Piaf, Edith Piaf's biography written with tragic affection by her sister Simone Berteaut and listen to Ben Folds' Lonely Avenue, with each song written by Nick Hornby (who rules) for some great tunes. And then exercise, and not because you want to look like the chick in the metamucil ad, but because it's nice to feel respect every so often. Like that bitch Aretha Franklin always said. Maybe she was onto something.

Be back soon.

the boy atomic.