Exercise is, by all accounts, a thoroughly commendable thing. Everyone agrees that it benefits the body, the mind, the circulatory system, self-confidence, and world peace. And yet I suspect that nature, when introducing it into human life, overlooked one small detail: it actually has to be done.

Whenever I spot the modest note “exercise” in my calendar, a highly efficient department for generating reasons to avoid moving springs into action in my mind. The arguments are always carefully constructed, logical, and at first glance almost scientific. I didn’t sleep enough, and overexertion after lack of sleep isn’t healthy. I was recently ill, and overexertion after illness isn’t sensible. I had a stressful day at work, and overexertion after stress is downright reckless.

If we look more closely at these reasons, we find that they all converge into one universal, all-encompassing position: I don’t want to overdo it. It’s a flexible argument, usable in any weather and in any season. It conveniently covers fatigue, laziness, philosophical doubt, and even a mild cold that wouldn’t otherwise deserve attention.

And so, occasionally, an unfortunate thing happens: I postpone exercise until the next time. And because I know how dangerous it is to give excuses room to grow, I begin to behave with extreme responsibility. The day before, I try to live in such a way that absolutely nothing could prevent me from exercising the following day. I go to bed early. I don’t eat suspicious things. I avoid stress. I refrain from any activity that might lead to increased fatigue, pain, or existential exhaustion.

The result of this careful planning is a disaster. Exercise day arrives, and I discover that I am healthy, rested, and entirely devoid of usable excuses. I try to invent one, but fail. “I don’t want to overdo it” sounds utterly unconvincing, because objectively speaking, there is no way for me to overdo anything. And so I go and exercise.

During the exercise itself, I suffer. It is dignified, systematic, and intensely physical suffering. My body makes it clear that it would vastly prefer quiet sitting and contemplating the immortality of the cockchafer. Once I get past the halfway point, however, things improve. Not because it becomes easier, but because I know it will soon be over. At this moment, hope is stronger than muscle fatigue.

And then it ends. A moment follows that I would, almost without exaggeration, describe as a rebirth. The muscles are pleasantly warmed, the world feels somehow lighter, movements smoother, and existence more bearable. I have plenty of energy, a good mood, a good feeling, and the sense that I could solve most personal and global problems if only I had the time and a clean T-shirt.

At this point it is perfectly clear that exercise is the answer. To everything. All the previous resistance, excuses, and postponements were merely the result of a failure to grasp a higher principle. Exercise is not an evil, but a gift. Not suffering, but an investment.

There is, however, a minor problem: I am writing this very shortly after finishing my workout. And while I am genuinely and sincerely experiencing all of these feelings right now, somewhere in the back of my mind another voice is already speaking up. It reminds me that the day after tomorrow is also a day. And that next to it in the calendar is the word “exercise.”

And that voice asks whether, this time, it might not be wiser not to overdo it.