Can exercise spark joy and if not can I bin it, Marie Kondo style? I write this from my traditional position: a hunched, static ball, like a gargoyle (expression and posture). As one of the 47% of British women who have done no vigorous exercise in the past year, I hardly move. It has got worse recently: the dog’s too old for long walks, pilates is too far away, meaning I’m paying £35 a month just to feel guilty, and I’m really busy, OK? (If you could raise your heart rate with defensiveness and excuses, I’d be fine.) The past six months have been my least physically active since I had glandular fever at 19, a time I look back on with nostalgic longing: sleep for 14 hours, read for 10 minutes, snack, then back to sleep.
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