What I think about when I think about exercise

MANILA, Philippines - It was the year 2001 when Elle Woods lied to me.

“Exercise gives you endorphins,” she says matter-of-factly. “Endorphins make you happy.”

Ten minutes on the treadmill and all “endorphins” made me was want to dry-heave into the ether. I probably shouldn’t have trusted a movie called Legally Blonde in the first place, so who really knows who to blame here?

Ever since I could remember, I had declared myself to be naturally averse to exercise, sports, and physical activity. P.E. was the only subject I nearly failed in the third grade, marring my honors streak. I was so clumsy that I’d trip over cracks in the floor that didn’t even exist. I pointed out my lack of hand-eye coordination, claiming it as something I was self-deprecatingly aware of so as not to have to hear it from someone else. On my long mental list of personal flaws, my ineptitude for using my body was perhaps the most glaringly obvious.

(I did, however, join dance numbers in grade school — for whatever reason — but that’s another story. A story I will never tell.)

Because I had accepted this as truth, I avoided any and all physical activity. I would elect the easiest P.E. class when I had units to fill. On the only sem that I bothered to even try, my tennis teacher told me that for my finals match, he drew my name from a digital tennis match and that I, unfortunately, lost. The least he could have done was told me earlier, so I didn’t have to sit around the Manang’s in my barely-scuffed tennis shoes, waiting for the match that wouldn’t be. I could have been at home, vegging out and watching Lost or something. See, even in the digital realm, I’m a loser.

I never really exercised all that much, but I didn’t eat a lot either. I didn’t gain much weight — until around late 2011, that is. I discovered the wonders of food, the joys of eating, the magic of taste! I neglected to think about my health and my body. I never used to before. In late 2013, my weight hit my personal heaviest. An alarming number of people around me were also quietly growing worried about my health, since my snacker tendencies, general laziness, and the sedentary nature of my job and lifestyle all led me to make some generally unhealthy choices.

I felt fat, but what made me feel even worse was knowing that I was actually unhealthy. Not bothering with the habit of exercising, I was only roused to action by cute workout clothes at first. Over time, though, I felt overwhelming pressure to lose weight and be healthier. My clothes didn’t fit, and worst of all, my body didn’t feel like it was mine.

It wasn’t even just that I was bad at physical activity (yes, even walking); I find sports and exercise so boring. I don’t like being bored. Betty Draper said that only boring people got bored, but she is Betty Draper, so I don’t trust her. I’ve added reading, watching videos, running to music, and many other “forms of entertainment” to my exercise mix, but no matter what I do, my brain doesn’t seem to want to leave the land of boredom, like a stubborn child. I persist, but not without much struggle.

Endorphins are still as mythical to me as they were back in 2001, but who needs them to feel good, when the sweat that rolls off my forehead into my eyes is a good enough reminder that what I’m doing, the mind-numbingly boring routine of exercise, is for my body’s own good? The idea of finally being healthier was what ultimately brought on the happiness. That and the promise of a svelte physique, no matter how marginal the projected change in my figure would probably be.

A friend of mine, who made the lifestyle switch to a healthier one a few years ago, told me to just look for something that I enjoy doing. The thing is, I’ve enjoyed nothing so far, but I told her I’d keep looking. Maybe I’ll finally get a dose of endorphins.