Day 50: No Sweat.

After a muddy soccer game, 1982. Okay, so I had a thing for Jim Morrison. Sue me.

What is it about exercise that makes my blood run cold? Why do I hate physical movement with the same intensity that I hate ... oh, I don't know, olives? (Seriously. Olives are just disgusting. I can't even eat anything they've touched - they leave behind repulsive little slime trails.)

My dislike of exercise goes way back. Sure, there's a time I can point to when physical activity was fun, but that was before puberty. After that, it gets tangled up with gym class, a poor body image, and painful headaches borne from a truly retarded inability to breathe.

The last time I considered myself athletic was in highschool, when I played softball. I didn't get around to going out for the team until my senior year, and I made first-string thanks to the sheer power of my throwing arm (I also loved to make dramatic, diving catches from third base). I can still hear my coach's voice from the sidelines reminding me to, "Breathe, Karen - breathe!" Apparently, I had developed a penchant for holding my breath at the point of contact, which led to a somewhat frightening cooked-lobster face and, later, massive headaches.

Once I began equating exercise with headaches, it was all over. In college, the closest I came to exercise was intramural soccer my freshman year (I had no choice if I wanted to go out drinking afterwards) and broomball (a hockey-like game played with sawed-off brooms on the frozen campus pond, which I doubt I could resist even now). After that, well, sex was about it.

I managed a brief comeback after that 1989 bet with Samantha's mother, during which I joined a local tennis club and worked out one way or another almost every day. Not only did I maintain a pretty decent weight that year, my serve became lethal and I met my first girlfriend (she was my personal trainer at the club ... and I have to say, when I see that in print, it feels two steps away from porn). I battled the headaches that year by taking massive amounts of preventitive Advil, plus I had Sophie (the first girlfriend) constantly reminding me to inhale, exhale, and repeat.

When I got into film school and moved to Los Angeles, that was the end of my born-again exercise jag. I've tried off an on to change my habits, but nothing seems to stick. I love my dogs, but clearly not quite enough to make sure they get walked every day (I have a huge yard). I owned a stair-stepper a few years back, but within a few months, it became a glorified coat rack. I tried jogging once, but all it did was make my shins sore. And always the headaches ... always the headaches.

To blame the headaches alone, however, would be a bit of a cheat. Headaches or not, I basically seem to have zero discipline when it comes to getting off my ass and moving. Whenever I actually exercise, I feel great (well, after I get over feeling shitty) - and yet, that happy feeling never translates to the next time I face the same situation.

So what do I do? Telling me to simply "get up and do it" would be ineffective. If I could manage to do that, I would. Maybe I'm just spoiled. Or lazy. Or cursed. Yeah - that's the ticket ... I'm cursed. That way, it's not really my fault.

Okay, so I'm not cursed by anything more than a lifetime of bad habits. But I really do wish I could find a way to change my behavior in a way that would stick. Because if I don't start exercising, one thing will happen and one thing won't. What won't happen is that I won't lose the weight I need to, and what will happen is that I'll drop dead a decade or two early from one of those "she didn't exercise enough" ailments.

Suggestions, anyone? Anyone? Bueller?