The day after Thanksgiving, with its belt-loosening turkey (dark meat and white meat), stuffing (bread-crumb infused), mashed potatoes and clear gravy, a random antipasto plate of three different cheeses, crackers, and salami, and pumpkin pie is enough to make a man stick to his couch's butt groove for a few days.
After reacquainting myself with my couch, my remote control, my laptop, and refreshing my e-mail 276 times, I decided to do a late-night workout. I successfully crouched into 25 squats, using only my body weight as resistance, stood on my toes boxer-style for 30 calf raises, rocked into the raised-fetal position for five knee-to-chest jumps, and pogo-sticked for 20 below-the-rim rim touches.
The workout was fairly brisk and quite successful, if only for the fact that I actually followed the stretching regimen outlined for me by my physical therapist. Why do I, why do we, often ignore advice that we know is good for us? Why have I not taken as much time to stretch as I have to flip through the channels aimlessly and heedlessly, or click on thirteen random links on Wikipedia?
The answer is simple and embarrassing--because it's boring. Stretching is boring, and though I know it is beneficial for my back and me, maybe even more beneficial than any of my jumping exercises, I have to force myself to do it because it's "boring." Anything worth doing has to be exciting.
Great advice for a high school teacher to pass on to his students, eh?