I try to keep myself busy these days, which involved joining a million societies – and quite a few sporty ones – at the start of the year, and sticking with them for as long as I could; the upshot of this is that last week, I played sports every evening from Monday to Friday, then went clubbing on Friday and Saturday night. And now my lower body refuses to cooperate with my brain.
There are obvious disadvantages to this – everything hurts, I feel like I’m not spending as much time as I want to with my friends outside of these clubs, and my performance in these activities has been getting progressively worse over the week – and even the benefits of all this exercise have been rather undermined by my refusal to eat anything more than a bowl of serial every day if I’m lucky, meaning I’m losing an unhealthy amount of weight, and gaining nothing in terms of muscle.
But I don’t care, I’m enjoying doing this stuff; without wanting to sound like a YOLO-quoting, hashtag-abusing carbon life-form devoid of an appreciation of the longevity of life, and dare I say intelligence too, I’m not particularly concerned with the consequences of the things I do while I’m doing them, or when I’m making plans to do them. If I want to do a thing I’ll do it, and do it as intensively as possible for as long as possible, because the alternative is not doing that thing, which is relatively boring.
Also, I like to draw a line between mental stress and physical stress (probably because Football Manager divides players’ attributes into mental and physical categories, and that game has had a greater influence on my character today than my parents, teachers and friends put together), and while these sports are ultimately physically tiring, they’re not so intensive and so relentless that the physical fatigue they cause can’t be overcome through mental action. Basically, I’m getting tired, but not tired enough that it’s physically impossible to move the next day, so I’ll just decide to do more things that day. Incidentally, there have been a few times where I have been so exhausted movement has been impossible, despite my mental intentions, such as the week after my four-day Gold DofE expedition, and my first time playing a 90-minute football match in which I ran around consistently for about 89 minutes and 59 seconds of it.
But attempts to throw a handball or work on the art of faking a front punch to disguise a kick in karate aren’t that strenuous, because I’m not good enough at them to tire myself out like that – I can walk and run pretty well, on the other hand – and these are weekly, regular activities, designed to be activities of medium intensity that you can replicate week-on-week, instead of being an annual, leg-crushing football match, or a four-day, one-off expedition that basically serves as the final boss in the video game-like world of the DofE award, which is amusingly about as annoying and full of tedious bullshit as the Myst series.
I’ve had today – Sunday – off, getting up at four in the afternoon, watching the France-Scotland rugby game on iPlayer and listening to Lady Sovereign, again trying to weight up whether her albums are really worth me buying on iTunes, then worth the space on my phone they’ll take up. But tomorrow I’ll be back doing karate, and getting set for another deceptively stressful week of dodgeball around this time next week.
Unless the fact that I have to read The Mill on the Floss in, like, a day becomes an issue. Maybe don’t hold me to that promise, handballers, dodgelings and martial artists.