I feel sick. My body is weak, my head is hot and hurts, and my face is red. No, I don't have the flu: I just went jogging with a German.
Yes, yes, I know, everyone has to work out and do Sport. I am no exception, though I know I should be much more active, because I'm carrying extra pounds. I do jog or walk in the mornings, at my own pace. I walk to school and back most every day, and there I go up and down the stairs. There is an exercise ball on my shelf that I never use, but I'm thinking about it all the time. On Mondays I'm scheduled to play Tischtennis for 90 minutes, and I attend a "Body Fit" class on Tuesdays. But none of it is enough, and none of it is enjoyable, because for me, exercise is unpleasant.
Sure, I love getting outdoors, waking up early, hearing the birds sing, riding a bicycle in the breeze, walking through the forest, and such natural wonders that may involve exercise. I pride myself on hiking uphill to a local castle or taking an unnecessary walk when running errands. However, when I'm laying supine on my yoga mat in class and I'm asked to perform acrobatics the likes of which I cannot possibly achieve with muscles that feel like they haven't been used since high school, I question my existence. I ask myself why I ever thought that signing up for an exercise class in Germany was a good idea. I curse the nonchalant, German, imperious athletic instructor with her perfect body who has been teaching exercise classes for years. I curse my German boyfriend for asking me every Tuesday if I'm going to Sport. Finally, I curse the country of Germany. Why are they all so oppressive?
Of course, this is my psyche fighting back against the pain being incurred. It's nobody's fault but mine that I feel so rotten for the first 20 minutes after I exercise beyond what my body and my faul mind can tolerate.
Not a bad place to work out
Today, which happens to be a Tuesday, the instructor wasn't instructing, so my co-worker and Body Fit classmate Jutta and I agreed to do our own workout together. "Walking, jogging, something in the neighborhood," we both agreed smiling, me certain that though I would be challenged, I could handle anything she could throw at me.
Wrong.
Oh, I knew what I was getting into, and that is the conundrum, just like I know what I'm getting into when I walk to the little Sporthalle in our neighborhood where our class takes place. I know that torture awaits, and it was no different today with Jutta. I knew what was coming. She is a P.E. teacher for God's sake, and she doesn't have any excess weight on her over-50-ish body. I heard about how Jutta jogs through the vineyards. She also swims, dances, bicycles, etc. etc. etc. She does all these different things every week. She's fit. Furthermore, she's one of those by-the-book Germans, matter-of-factly in manner and voice. They're rule-followers and are the backbone of this stalwart land. Yes, Jutta is typisch deutsch, in my opinion, and I respect that in her.
I jogged down the street to meet Jutta part of the way, so she wouldn't have to walk so far. Oh, poor Jutta, jogging uphill to meet me, not out of breath one little bit, ponytail and perfect exercise outfit. Having just rushed from a coffee date with a friend, she managed to be punctual and able-bodied. She is a machine.
Joining right in on the jog, I would show her how I did things. Of course, she was faster than me, and the slight uphill (0.000011%) incline leading to the beautiful vineyards where we would jog almost did me in. But I held the course.
"Vee vill chost chog up to dat vite Haus," Jutta uttered authoritatively in her perfect, non-breathless voice.
"Okay," I cringed, agreeing. I supposed after that we wouldn't have to jog anymore, and we could just walk the rest of the way.
Wait, that white house? The one slightly uphill on the horizon?
"But can we walk just a little bit of the way?" I huffed.
Jutta was sympathetic at first. "Vee vill go to dat yellow boosh and vock from there," she answered.
Phew, I thought, because I couldn't really talk at this point. Our workout wouldn't be so bad after all. She would have mercy on me. She would let me catch my breath when needed. I wouldn't die today.
We got to the yellow bush, and we began walking. "Sving your arms, as if you haff sticks," she commanded. I swang. "Faster! Faster!" she ordered. My ears took in her words, and these were transmitted to my brain, but my ass didn't catch them quickly enough. "You are not vocking fast enough!" Jutta dictated.
We hadn't taken more than 10 steps when she directed, "Okay, we jog again."
By this time, I had caught my breath. As a natural biological response, when it is suffering, my body tells me to stop, and I had slowed down to walk because of that warning, so there was some comfort in that. But presently Jutta's foreign influence was stronger than my lazy mind. I began jogging again, catching up to her, my companion who curiously hadn't emitted a trickle of sweat.
We made it uphill to the white house, and from there -- thank the sweet Lord -- it was downhill. But I knew what was coming. If you jog downhill, you have jog back up. And I knew the hill we would soon be ascending: I had attempted it morning after morning in my half-woken state, and that same lazy rear end of mine could not push itself uphill while jogging then. How would it do it now, late afternoon, after a whole day of work? I didn't hesitate to state my case to her.
"Oh yes, you vill do it," I heard Jutta assert through the fog of my pain. There was also something else she said about the mind not being operative when the body is working. Oh, my mind was working when we started jogging uphill. It was saying, "Stop! Stop! You're going to throw up!"
Threatening to kotzen didn't deter Jutta. She wasn't standing for it. "Faster! Faster!" I heard again. "Gib mehr gas!"
At last there was some light at the end of my dark, excruciating tunnel. After about 3.5 kilometers of jogging with very little walking, Jutta's house was just around the corner.
"You can jog home, and I can walk the rest of the way," I spurted like a blowfish, my face red and puffy, hoping she'd accept my offer. Mercifully she agreed, instead of insisting on driving me home like a whip to a horse's flank, making me jog with her all the way back up to my flat. Surely she had had enough insisting for the day, and as she turned off, we said goodbye and agreed to do it again. I pretended to walk quickly, moving my arms as if they held sticks. And without the energy to turn around to make sure she was out of sight, as soon as I intuited the coast to be clear, I slowed to a walk and reached out for anything to comfort my ailing body, like the touch of a cold stone on a neighbor's wall. Reaching out a flailing hand, I grabbed for a brick. But it was warm from the heat of the day.
"Scheisse," I said to myself, head spinning, body reeling. No assistance from inanimate objects.
And now, as I sit here feeling sick, head reeling, body recovering, stomach growling, I just want to drink a Coke and eat a big candy bar. But I won't. I can't, because why did I suffer in the first place if I'm just going to ruin it all with a blissful sugar rush? All I have to do is look down to see the Winterspeck I'm keeping safe around my abdomen, which helps me tell myself "no."
Instead, just like it was true last Tuesday, working out with Germans causes me to curse, and there's a very kurz activity that adds no calories. It happens in my head: I curse myself, I curse my body, I curse the sick feeling in my stomach,I curse the fact I can't drink a Coke, I curse my German boyfriend. And I curse the whole country, because Germans are strong, they are unrelenting, and they are fit. But the cursing is over in a millisecond, because one of these days, I'll be just like them.
Wörterbuch / Dictionary
faul - lazy
Gib mehr gas! - literally: give it more gas; Go faster!
kotzen - to "puke" or throw up (slang)
(die) Scheisse - shit (slang)
(der) Sport - exercise, fitness class, sports, physical education
(die) Sporthalle - health club, gym
(das) Tischtennis - table tennis, ping-pong
typisch deutsch - typical German
(der) Winterspeck - lit. "winter bacon"; winter fat
