The Atlantic
Life is coming back, and Americans are working out to get ready for it.
All pandemic long, I’ve been hunting for a way please, literally
any way to bludgeon myself into exercising with some kind of regularity. The quarantine life has turned me into an Indian Gollum. My arms, never quite jacked but at least semi-toned, currently have about as much bulk as overcooked linguini. Whatever seedlings of abs I had last March are now buried deep beneath a permafrost of flab.
In the spring, I tried an online fitness class studded with motivational mantras so cheesy, you could put them on a Hallmark card. Nope. Over the summer, I briefly got back into running, but then my creaky knees decided they’d had enough of that. I narrowed my ambitions in the fall and forced myself to do some morning push-ups and planks. Soon enough, I was back to sleeping in.