The Woes of ‘Healthy Living’

Oh, carrot sticks! This ‘healthy living’ thing is deceptively difficult. In exam term we all try to be virtuous, and healthy living inevitably becomes a hot topic of conversation. But, however important it may be to look after ourselves, it seems to have become more about guilt than granola.

It all sounds so simple; so wholesome; so apple-crunchin’ly good. But, the art of the healthy lifestyle has been made into a complicated business.

For me, ‘healthy living’ conjures up images of white-clad, muesli-eating, yoga-doers on a mountainside. They are serene, and they are beautiful, and apparently they wake up really early. They make me angry.

This is not a lifestyle I can achieve. The word ‘healthy’ just leaves the bitter taste of broken resolutions and post-cake shame in my mouth. As such, all my attempts at healthy living have been disastrous. But, occasionally I tell myself: I will be wholesome. I will be a beacon of all that is pure and virtuous. I will be reborn as a person with some semblance of self-control.

Waking up with the sun is wholesome. Perhaps my previous lack of gusto for early mornings was because I didn’t have the sunrise and a leisurely bowl of muesli to look forward to? My usual duel with Time (otherwise known as the How-Many-‘Five More Minutes’-Can-Happen-Before-I-Actually-Miss-My-Supervision? game) will be replaced by a sprightly leap out of bed. I will greet the day with a yogic sun salutation. My alarm clock will become my friend.

Behold the shame-enducing Alpen girls; feel your waist-band tighten…

Not likely. I’m not a morning person. I will never do a sprightly leap out of bed unless severely prompted by ice cold water or fire alarms. Besides, early rising makes me feel more haggard than healthy, and nobody wants to feel haggard.

But, it’s not just my inability to wake up early that means I fail in the healthy living department; I can’t do sport either. In fact, sport is something I have avoided like the plague ever since a particularly violent rounders ball at school tried its best to fuse my glasses to my face.

I manage to power walk to lectures most days (a side effect of my turbulent relationship with my alarm clock), surely that’s enough? But, spending my Saturday mornings spying on college sports teams, while I sit and eat biscuits in my pyjamas, is just more fun than actually doing sport.

I know, I know, you’re judging me. But wait for it: I don’t eat healthily either. My idea of eating well generally involves eating less cake, and remembering my five-a-day (counting cider and strawberry cheesecake, obvs). But, apparently there is a lot more to it than this, as confirmed by my friend’s judging glare as I happily tucked into a hearty helping of roast potatoes at hall the other day.

I’d like to say that the realisation that large helpings of potatoes do not count as part of a healthy diet resulted in me throwing down my fork and rushing to the salad bar. Instead I finished my potatoes in a state of guilt-ridden confusion.

And so, in a state of desperation, I consulted Google. But, Google did not help. Google presented me with a plethora of ridiculous, and largely useless information. Why would eating a grapefruit after every meal make me healthier? Where can I buy green algae? And why on earth have so many people stopped cooking their food?

Crazy healthy diets are no fun whatsoever. And herein lies my problem with being healthy – the concept of what ought to constitute ‘healthy living’ has evolved into a confused craziness and a culture of gratification-denial.

Being healthy is about enjoying life; not denying yourself the tasty parts. It’s about finding exercise and food and routines that work for you. It’s about balance. And so, if I’ve learnt anything from my absolute failure to be a remotely wholesome individual, it is this: our mums had it right – eat your greens, because then you can have pudding. And if country rambles and lawn tennis are enough for the likes of Elizabeth Bennet, they’re enough for me.