When I was 16 my arms were like two pale sticks attached to an anorexic snowman. I was painfully thin. It wasn’t my fault—I’m English. Dickensian-skinny is to the youth of England as childhood obesity is to America. I was completely free of the burden of things like fat or muscles. I had seldom lifted anything heavier than a suitcase, and had never felt the urge to lift said suitcase over my head as a form of exercise for any reason. I was a runner, and that was how I chose to exercise.
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