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Is twenty-eight too early to consign yourself to the scrap-heap?

I once went on a Management Bullshit Course in which the speaker said that as we get older we find it harder to change our personality traits.  The point that stuck in my mind was the cut-off point he specified: twenty-eight.  Up until the age of twenty-eight, he said, we can still change who we are.  We can change those things about ourselves that annoy us.  After that, we’re screwed.  We’re stuck as we are.

Now, as with most theories, I’m pretty sure it’s not a hard and fast rule.  I’m fairly safe in the knowledge that we can always change who we are and what we’re like, but the point is that it becomes more difficult with age.  And did I mention I’m twenty-eight and ten twelfths?

If this were a lecture or seminar I’d ask you all to write down five things about yourself that you’d like to change.  We’d then probably do an exercise where I’d get you to write down positive steps you can take to achieve those goals.  I’d get you to create SMART objectives, and you’d leave my lecture full of optimism.  But the next day you’d probably have forgotten it all.  Is that a fair assumption or is that just me?  Have I just neatly summed up everything you need to know about me and why I’ll never change?

Why am I thinking all this then?  Well, last night, as planned, I went off to play 5-a-side football.  I actually did quite a bit of running about, which is unusual for me as I have the unenviable combination of being both unfit and lazy.  But after three Wednesday nights of football I definitely feel fitter.  Afterwards, as I said I would, I went to the pub and watched a bit of the England game with a Diet Coke.  All going to plan so far.  Then I had a beer.  A bit naughty but I felt I’d earned it.  Then I went home.

Me (centre) celebrating another brilliant goal

This is where it went a bit tits-up.  My girlfriend had some work friends over for dinner.  She’d made lasagne.  There was some left over, she told me.  “Stick it back in the oven,” I said, and went for a shower.  I returned and ate a rather large portion of lasagne with a bit of salad, plenty of coleslaw and some bread.  And a beer.  Oh, fuck it.

And then it hit me.  I’ll never change.  I love food.  I love beer.  I have very little self-control when it comes to food and beer.  Actually — scrap that — I have NO self control when it comes to food and beer.  I just love it.  I love food, and I like to eat until I’m stuffed.  If something’s nice, why deny yourself?  You might be dead tomorrow, so why not have that last mouthful of lasagne, that last slice of cheesecake, another beer?  This is why I’m overweight (it’s also — unsurprisingly — why I get so ridiculously drunk).

So, if I can’t change — if I’m always going to be a greedy fucker — then what to do?  Do I accept that I’ll be forever overweight and I’ll probably die of a heart attack in my forties?  Nope.  I need to do some ruddy exercise.  Yep, it’s come to that.  ME, doing EXERCISE!  You heard it here first.  Even though I’m lazy and the mere thought of going for a run tires me out, I need to do something on top of my weekly hour of football.  I’m not sure what yet, but I need to do something.  Just you watch me.

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