Okay. So. Here’s the deal. There are times in our lives when, not only is exercise the last thing on our minds, it is utterly irrelevant, because we are, in essence, perpetual motion machines.

During my own youth, for example, I walked or rode my bicycle to school, which was at least a mile each way. After school, my bike also took me to the library, the beach, Girl Scouts, my best friend’s house, and the tennis court. I walked to the ice-skating rink in the winter, which was about four blocks from my house. And I skated – ineptly. Just going round and round the rink like a gerbil – for the fun of it, until my toes froze, and I was absolutely certain that when I took off my skates, they would crash onto the floor like broken marbles.

After I entered the grown-up world, I moved to Manhattan, which is probably the greatest “walking city” in the world. So much to see. So many windows to look into and streets to explore, all of which is best done at a leisurely foot-to-pavement pace. Walk. Walk. Walk. When we are young, we don’t see that as exercise. It’s adventure.

To say nothing of the abodes in which young people dwell when they are starting out. Particularly a fledgling writer without much in the way of delicious, delightful, and de-lovely “filthy lucre.”

Every apartment I lived in when I was young … or even youngish … was a walk-up. The lowest was four flights up. The highest was six-flights from street level. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is nothing short of (a) aerobic exercise, and (b) strength training.

All by way of admitting that, until I got married and realized that meals were supposed to be eaten on plates at tables, and not standing over the sink with a slice of deli-turkey in one hand and a bottle of mayonnaise in the other, I never had to give my weight or health a single thought.

Marriage, however, is fattening. And sitting on a sofa in the evening watching a TV movie with one’s true love does no favors to the earthly vessels in which we carry around our souls.

This is the point at which our Friendly Neighborhood Doctor, to whom we go faithfully for our annual checkup (and the Mayo Clinic on its website), admonish us that there are seven benefits to regular exercise.

Are you taking notes? Good. Because this how they view the aforementioned dreaded activity:

1. Exercise controls weight. (Do we really want to look like Humpty-Dumpty before he fell off the wall?)

2. Exercise promotes health and combats diseases. (Self-explanatory).

3. Exercise promotes well-being. (Hmm. This must mean endorphins … those alleged “mood enhancers” that I’ve never encountered and I expect are mythological. Like mermaids.)

4. Exercise boosts energy. (I’ll take their word for it.)

5. Exercise promotes better sleep. (I’ll take their word for it.)

6. Exercise puts the spark back in your sex life. (Why let the spark go out in the first place?)

7. Exercise can be fun and social. (Again. I’ll take their word for it).

Since I no longer ride my bicycle, play tennis, ice skate until my toes fall off, or live in a six-flight walk-up, in order to avoid turning into a leviathan, I DO … and I have to take a deep breath before I admit this … exercise. Yes. Yes, I do. Regularly. Faithfully. Petulantly. Reluctantly. And, and here’s where YOU come in. With a sense of humor that FAR outweighs my sense of commitment.

Assuming that you, out there, are similarly – and grudgingly – committed to your own health, I thought you would enjoy hearing from some quipsters who feel the same about exercise as I do. We’ll start with one of my favorites (foul-mouthed, but I miss her. Joan Rivers.) “The first time I see a jogger smiling, I’ll consider it.” And … “If God had wanted me to bend over, he would have put diamonds on the floor.” 

Then we have Mark Twain: “I am pushing sixty. That is enough exercise for me.” And … “I have never taken any exercise, except sleeping and resting, and I never intend to take any.” And … “I take my only exercise acting as a pallbearer at the funerals of my friends who exercise regularly.”

We’ll end with a little advice from Phyllis Diller, who tells us, ““My idea of exercise is a good brisk sit.” Followed by … oh, Drat. I just looked at the clock. Time for me to:

“Exercise, Oh, exercise. I’d really rather not.

But facing facts, I must admit, it’s really what I ought

To do if I desire to live my life until … forever.

A cheerful, optimistic, and ridiculous endeavor!”

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com