Jan 25 - Crickets On Quinoa: A Quick History Of Cross Trainers, Personal Trainers And Nike Trainers

Written on 25 January 2018.

By Stefano Blanca Sciacaluga

I’m finding it hard not to awkwardly flop into my 30s. I turned 28 a few months ago and I’m feeling the pressure. I was never too bothered about ageing but turning 26 really messed me up and made me think of myself a little harder; then came 27 and then 28. I’m not worried about getting old per se, in fact, I’m looking forward to being an old fart, when complaining about everything will be OK and I can get people to do stuff for me just because I’m old. But when I think of all the time between now and when I’m in my 70s or 80s it’s a hell of a lot of years.

I remember being a teenager in school and seeing the odd guy with a receding hairline, then it became even more noticeable when I got to university, and now at almost 30 I see guys and think “wow, I can’t remember this guy with a full head of hair”, it’s been that long. But that’s fine, I have come to grips with the fact that probably at some point, maybe in the near future, I too will start balding and I’m going to have to go full Vin Diesel; or maybe full Larry David.

Because that’s the thing, the years have really crept up on me. Like I said, 26 was bad, I was like “dang, I’m no longer in my early twenties, second half!”, but then sometime between 27 and 28 I started to notice I was going white. Actually, first I noticed a couple of ginger hairs in my beard, which was strange (shoutout to DG), but soon enough I stopped seeing these and started to spot white hairs in there instead. It started with one or two, now I’ve got a bunch on my chin, including a patch of hair that has gone missing and seems to be coming back white. Oh, and now that I haven’t got a buzz cut I’ve seen some on my head too, when I brush.

Then there’s the grunting. I’m in pain, man. My back hurts, my neck hurts, my legs hurt… and I can’t help but grunt whenever I bend over. I’m constantly finding it difficult to find something that doesn’t hurt. I look at people my age and older walking around like gazelles whilst I’m probably walking around slightly hunched in a position that’s good for nothing other than momentary relief from shoulder pain caused by lying on the couch for hours in an unusual position, shovelling rubbish into my mouth.

And that’s something else. I’ve been trying to get back on track. Once upon a time I used to eat healthily, or at least I tried, and it’s not like my diet is super unhealthy but it’s been getting out of hand so I’m trying to get back into it. If only it’s all about walking in a position that means it doesn’t hurt when I breathe because I’ve binged on trash food for a whole afternoon. Oh, and on top of that, I’ve even bought myself some Nike trainers and crosstrainer. cross trainer. cross-trainer. However it’s spelt, I don’t even want to know. What the hell is spelt?

But wobbly legs and rumbly belly sometimes isn’t so bad. It nicely complements spending the whole of January avoiding the NatWest App on my phone and seeing how much I owe the bank. It’s learning to be more determined to make a change, finding that determination from deep inside, which I hadn’t had to use for a while. It’s about getting more organised with everything, using my diary that I bought last December. It’s about analysing time, and making the most of everything, and knowing how long time is. It’s about finding the strength to not chug Club Mate naked in a German hotel room and drinking actual mate instead.

I feel that if I can get into some good routines and with some determination and strength I could easily gallop like a beautiful llama into my 30s, chugging water, naked, in my spare room, on my cross trainer, doing an average of whatever the average of cross trainer whatever is, without even breaking a sweat, triumphant, and then getting off it with a backflip and a cartwheel and eating a meal of crickets on quinoa with some hot sauce (because I’m not giving that up, I refuse to give that up), or whatever people eat in two years from now, and then looking in the mirror and being one hundred percent happy with a white beard, like the wizard from the Where’s Wally books or David Letterman now.

Alternatively I can just chill, rest my guitar on my belly and you know, awkwardly flop into my 30s.