Carol’s Column

If you feel like exercising just lie down until the feeling goes away

A NEW fever's hit Johannesburg. It's called "Get Fit Quick" and everyone's doing it.

Cycling, gym, aerobics, sailing, walking, horse-riding, squash, tennis — no self-respecting body would dare to be without a sport.

But to be honest, sport, or lack of exercise, hadn't really worried me until last week when I was packing for the coming holidays in three weeks' time. I pack early because of my grandmother, the Turkish belly dancer of Stellenbosch. "Always be ready," she used to say. "A stitch in time catches a husband." She adapted proverbs to suit her train of thought at the time. "Marry at speed and enjoy it at leisure," was another of her proverbial wisdoms.

While squeezing into my bikini, my daughter happened to put her Rastafarian plaited head around the door. In that tactful way that teenagers have, she gasped horribly and said: "Ma, you can't wear that. You look gross because you're so fat."

"That's muscle," I muttered as I sucked in my breath causing the upward movement of my stomach to push my cleavage somewhere around my neck which made my chins touch my forehead.

Okay, so there's muscle and muscle.

"What you need," said my good friend Betty, sympathising as we ate a diet lunch of fettucine and chocolate mousse, "is a strict exercise regime."

"You see," I explained to my family later, "what I need is a personal gym instructor. Someone who will take my body seriously and transform it from a misshapen mistake to a thing of beauty."

"Ma, be realistic," muttered Jamie.

My oldest son was more pragmatic. "Ma, I've got just the person for you," said Barry. "David Black. He's a brilliant gymnast and he's an expert on reconditioning bodies. I'll speak to him."

I was grateful.

"Okay, Ma," reported Barry next day. "He can't train you himself because he's writing exams, but he's given me an exercise schedule which, if you stick to, he guarantees will turn you into Jane Fonda within weeks."

Personally, I prefer Kim Bassinger, but that would involve plastic surgery and right now my car needs a new cylinder head gasket and a skim. First things first.

I looked at David Black's schedule. Three times around the Zoo Lake, 10 times up and down the pavilion steps at Jan Celliers School, 200 skips without stopping, a brisk sprint across the playing fields and back again, 10 lengths in the Zoo Lake baths and then a leisurely trot around the zoo with a break for 50 push-ups at the vulture enclosure. That was for the first week and then the schedule hotted up.

"Barry, this will turn me into Bruce Fordyce," I wailed, sipping a gin and orange juice to retrieve my bloodsugar level which had slipped to my knees. "This will kill me."

My husband smiled.

I should never have married a man, I thought to myself as I girded my ankles and worked out a plan of action.

The next day I phoned seven gyms, five aerobics centres and six dance classes but fortunately they were all full which meant I had to rely totally on myself to acquire a body to launch a thousand sailboards.

On Saturday I walked to my car. Briskly. From the front door to the carport. It was exhausting.

On Sunday I cycled twice around the Zoo Lake stopping for life-giving sustenance of a double malted milk shake with a flaky bar, cherry and nuts.

On Monday I surpassed myself when I took the dogs for a gentle jog around three trees. Tuesday was exerciseless due to the fact that I strained my elbow while jogging with the dogs on Monday. Wednesday saw me at the Parkview squash courts, watching the other players, while on Thursday I walked to and from the front door to the carport nine times and on Friday I did two kneebends.

Yesterday, I tried on my bikini and all my muscle is in exactly the same position as it was a week ago. Which only proves that, as my grandmother used to say, a little stomach goes a long way given half a chance.

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