How fit am I? Fit enough to lift a doughnut to my lips. But how fit am I really? I don’t have a step in my flat – I ate it – so I go into the hall and step on and off – 104 times. My heart rate afterwards put me in the below average category.
I can get on and off a chair 22 times in one minute. I have developed very strong legs. I need them to drag all my fat around. Can I sit with my back against a wall and touch my toes? I cannot and I don’t want to. I think touching your toes is depraved. But I can touch my shin. That’s good, apparently. I’m fit. I’m the fittest person in my body.
Then I lie on the floor and try to lift my upper body and then a bastard poltergeist punches me in the stomach. I scream. That is the pattern. Sit-up. Scream. Rest. Sit-up. Scream. Rest. Sit-up. Scream. Explain to policeman who knocks on door I am attempting a home fitness test. Sit-up. Scream. It’s an aerobic-themed auto-da-fé.
Now I measure my gut. The tape measure says I have obesity. I am in the high-risk category. The anti-fat terror squad will come and steal my pasta. I eat the tape measure.
Next: skipping. I used to like skipping. No more. I skip for 68 seconds. This feels like somewhere between poor and quadriplegic. Then I walk a mile. Again, poor. It takes me 22 minutes. I should have walked towards the KFC instead.
And so to the reaction test. I can’t do it in less than 0.3 seconds. Poor.
I do six press-ups in a minute. Six press-ups. Six screams. Very poor. But I’m not surprised. I thought it would be worse.
For the agility test, I can’t find tape so I use a pair of socks. I jump from one sock to another on one leg, changing legs half way through. I look like a giant chicken. The giant chicken can do 4.5 jumps in one minute. It would have been five but the sock slipped. That is beyond poor. That is a new category of fitness. That is dead.
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