Trying to Bend the Knee 

Adya Singh

Adya is a lifelong creative who is now returning to a childhood dream of being a writer. She spent the first ten years of her career in finance, working until her worsening endometriosis made her realise she needed a break– and a career that gave her more space to take care of herself. She is currently on a gap year after moving back to her hometown, Mumbai, from London. Her focus has been on rebuilding her health, building her Substack, and uncovering new skills while working on a business with her husband to launch a men’s skincare company, called Mr. Macha.

Trying to Bend the Knee 

The tragedy of trying to get fit in your thirties after a very sedentary youth is that your mind finally has the sense and fortitude to build the habit, but your knees are already sixty-one. 

My mind told me it is a great idea to start running, playing padel, and doing three personal-training sessions every week. My mind was proud; I even have half a bicep now (triceps en route). 

But then I went and spoiled it all by saying something stupid like “I’m surprised I haven’t hurt myself yet”. My marketing department has always done a stellar job in portraying me as the pinnacle of sensibility. But I am an idiot just like everyone else, like when I think it is a great idea to rehearse a dance for two hours on a sore (but recovering) knee, only to sprain it and take three months to recover. It was goodbye to my brief padel and running stints, and even briefer rock-climbing career. In the quest to make my body better, I have made it a lot worse, narrowly escaping surgical intervention (three doctors had to read my MRI to confirm). 

So, while I struggled through twelve-hour road trips, a missed surfing course, and the discovery that my ladylike leg-crossed sitting habit has destabilised my hips, the Husband attended two trial PT sessions and is already seeing ab definition. 

I have had nearly 30 training sessions in the last two months, plus three supervised leg days with a physiotherapist. In the same period, he had 5 kickboxing lessons and 4 PT hours, of which he ended two early because he got nauseous after snacking 10 minutes before the gym. He gets half an ab per week, and I pull a muscle in my neck trying to drape my sari. 

Perhaps I should have seen this coming, like a morally ambiguous film character who turns to the straight and narrow only to face the consequences of their past sins. The concept of gaining muscle might be too alien to my body, after all it lived about thirty years without it, getting by without issue since nothing I did was too much of an exertion anyway. I don’t think my next thirty years will look very pretty if I don’t do this now, though. 

I can’t even blame my childhood for a lack of exposure to exercise. My school was very ahead of its time with an annual 5k that I abhorred. My parents tried their best to get me into some sport, from a summer of squash lessons to the tennis camp I crashed out of by spraining my ankle during the first warmup. 

Maybe it just goes back to me not liking being told what to do. On my first ever online date, a few months into my life in the UK, I went for a drink with a physiotherapy student. If that date were a high school timetable, then chemistry had been dropped on the first Monday. To fill the awkward silence with what he hoped was a relatable conversation starter, he asked me how often I work out, to which I said I could count on one hand the number of times I had been to a gym. I can only assume he really did not want the conversation to continue because he proceeded to give me a lecture about getting at least 30 mins a day of moderate to intense exercise. He wasn’t wrong; he was just seven years too early. 

It feels like the final revenge was not in the times I couldn’t keep up with a hiking group, but in my body betraying me just when I was getting my shit together. My knee is getting better, but it has been three months since I could sit cross-legged on the floor. I am re-learning how to walk, sit, and stand. It feels unfair for these consequences to arrive so much later than the crimes. Seems like there is no statute of limitations on this.