One of the great felicities of the human brain is the way it tells us lies about who we are and what we can do. Or is it just me?, writes Anne Enright.
Is it just my brain that looks at Olympic athletes and feels instinctively that it is only a question of time and/or motivation before I, too, can do a double pike half twist to punch front. I know there are many people who feel exactly that way about writing books, or losing weight, but you can believe that you are Victoria Beckham more instantly than you can believe you are Salman Rushdie, because it is not so much the brain that lies to us in this particular way as the eye.
The eye is a fool, there is no doubt, but it is a different kind of fool than the person behind it. The eye is an optimist. And very greedy. It has great powers of belief. We are only disappointed when we look away.
When Hamlet said, "Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew," it was a sure sign that he didn't have Sky Sports. Because melt it does, as our minds kick, sprint and head the ball with the best of them. This is why fat guys like sport. No, this is why fat guys love sport. It should be one of those rules about men (like "the flashier the car, the more disappointing the guy behind the wheel") that the fatter the guy, the more ardently he thinks that, for fantastic slices of precious dream time, he is as he watches Ronaldinho (Or whoever. Come on. What do I know? I'm old). Hence all that sitting on the sofa with all those six-packs of fantasy-enhancing beer.
Not that I am (a) exempt or (b) thin. I've had a few fantasy-enhancing glasses of Sauvignon Blanc in my day. I once saw a group of slightly drunk Russians go for a swim in the sea, and I thought: "Why not? Why not drink and exercise at the same time? Is there some rule about this? It used to be called dancing, for goodness' sake." The good news is that, apparently, dreaming about going to the gym; thinking about it, nearly going to the gym - sitting rigid in your chair, nails digging in to the armrests, as you fantasise the treadmill, hop on to the bike and lollop bravely on the Nordic funnything - apparently, as I say, just dreaming about exercise burns more calories than sitting wondering if you put the milk back in the fridge.
They have measured this effect in Cleveland (of course) where scientists made people imagine flexing one of their biceps as hard as possible five times a week, as a result of which mental labour the subjects showed a 13.5 per cent increase in strength.
Take up your bed and walk.
Sadly, since I have taken up yoga, I don't even drink the night before a class. Sad. Sad. Sad. And you are not supposed to look around in yoga class. You must look at the designated place: the tips of your fingers, say, or the tip of your nose. And though increased flexibility means that you will see parts of yourself you never expected to see - ever - this is only by accident; for the most part the fool that is your eye is as disciplined as the rest of you. No mirrors, no showers, no undressing on the beach: glory hallelujah, a form of exercise that is not a bullying confrontation between yourself and the sad sack that Hamlet wanted out of, so urgently.
Still, the eye does wander, and sometimes it gets get stuck at some yoga babe's spiritually enhanced, cellulite-free and beautifully elongated hamstrings. Sometimes you find yourself not so much staring as knowing that, one day, you will bend it like her. You could do it now, if you tried . . .
Of course, yogically speaking, you can actually do it. Just not at the moment. If you ignore the time-space continuum - as good yogis must - you are, somewhere, somehow, pushed up into the most amazing back bend, and it feels really great. In the meantime, all you have to do is get on the mat every single day, for the rest of your life.
Writing is a bit like yoga (except that it makes your bum all flat). Like yoga, if you sit down and write a little, every day for the rest of your life, you will realise that you have an awful lot left to learn. Along the way you will have produced any number of books, and/or wiped the sweat off your brow with back of your knee, but, in the end, all moments gather into one long, ongoing moment, where all you do is breathe and move or breathe and type, like this: clicketty clack clickettyclack clicketty shanti shanti (clack) om.
I've gone all wise.
Anne Enright's new novel, The Gathering, is published by Jonathan Cape, £12.99 in UK.