I am not sure the fact it was the 1980s was any excuse.
The recent death of effervescent television exercise guru Richard Simmons has reminded me I once owned a 1982 LP of his, Reach.
A fat child and teenager, Richard eventually hit 122kg in adulthood and, after losing 56kg, he became evangelical about weight loss and exercise, and the importance of healthy eating.
He was an easy figure to ridicule, with his skimpy shorts and campy over-the-top patter and the truly dreadful songs which accompanied his workouts, but there was something endearing about him.
Unlike those exercise shows peppered with people already trim, taut and terrific, Richard embraced, often literally, the obese and overweight who were valiantly trying to keep up with his routine.
He was quick-witted and funny, in a way which was not derisory.
He said he knew when to be silly and when to be serious.
As he put it, the silliness caught people off guard and made them think, but between the silly bits there was "a lot of seriousness that makes sense".
He eschewed the fad diet, believing you were better off with sensible eating and regular exercise.
In the 1980s, his exercise show used to grace our morning television screens, if I remember correctly. (Years later, he reached a wider audience here when he featured in an Air New Zealand safety video, also starring Paul Henry.)
My interest in this was not my first fumble towards an exercise programme. I have written before of my husband’s pre-children book gift Total Fitness in 15 Minutes a Day, which held a promise never realised. It was followed by my own purchase of Jane Fonda’s Workout Book for Pregnancy, Birth and Recovery. I did a few of the exercises but remember being intimidated by the glamorous shots of the pregnant and postpartum Jane Seymour.
I attempted some of Richard’s exercises during the show between interruptions from small children.
There was an outfit for this. No, dear readers, not a pair of short shorts a la Richard. Even then my legs resembled a relief map of the southern alps.
Instead, it was a hideous teal tracksuit (not my colour, darlings, but probably cheap) with high-waisted trousers and a top which was not long enough to cover the wobbly post-baby flab (a body part my sister the Earthquake Baby dubs flubberjubs).
In other words, it was not a good look.
How I got from half-heartedly attempting the exercises in front of the telly to forking out for Reach I do not know.
Its cover features curly-topped Richard reaching skywards, surrounded by followers in similar pose. It has the look of a rather desperate crowd of people attending a happy-clappy religious rally.
But while I still have the record cover, the record has escaped, possibly trying to find a home with a functioning record player.
Either that or the offspring used it as a frisbee to ensure I never played it.
The record came with a 20-page exercise booklet described as deluxe. Mine has some bite-sized chunks missing as if I got too hungry by side two and just had to have a paper hit to get to the end.
But I have no recollection of exercising to the record.
It’s hard to believe I would ever have been co-ordinated enough to go through the 70 or so parts of the routine outlined in the deluxe booklet, keeping time with Richard’s songs. My attention span might have been found wanting too.
When I asked the offspring about it, one of them likely spoke for them all when he suggested if he had witnessed this his subconscious probably scrubbed it from his memory. (They have probably also blocked out my noisy frenzied skipping on the deck craze and equally annoying running up and down the house stairs phase.)
They know my attitude to exercise programmes has been like that of the coalition government to emissions reduction — more performative than productive.
Be seen to be attempting something, no matter how little, ineffective and short-lived.
Pretend merely wearing the teal tracksuit will have an impact. Find plenty of self-serving excuses for your lack of commitment.
If I still had the tracksuit, the record, and a working record player, I could invite Climate Change Minister Simon Watts around for an invigorating exercise session. I reckon he would really enjoy the number where Richard asks "who do you think you are fooling?"
"You know in your heart/you can’t stop and start.
"Nothing changes/trying to get away/with those games you play. You just can’t fake it. You know in your heart/you can’t stop and start.
"You won’t get that far/’cause it’s over, over. And, oh you gotta stop!"
• Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
