To the smattering of my facebook friends who politely chortled at my blogging efforts in July, I can only apologise for leaving you in three month's worth of suspense. Things happened and life occurred, but it has generously decided to go on hiatus for the foreseeable future and so I have little better to do than go to the gym and then tell you all about it. One day I'll stop spoiling you.
But, in all seriousness, I did in fact join a gym. So far, I have been once. To be fair, I did only join three days ago, but it is mustering up the motivation for self-flagellation that I find so difficult. Being skinny must HURT. For years, I have been a sporadic 'jogger', by which I mean I lifted my feet at a slightly increased pace to my usual shuffle for thirty minutes before eating some cake because, hey, I'd earned it. Unfortunately, for a four month period each year, Scotland maliciously thwarts my half-hearted cardiovascular endeavours with its frankly ill-chosen geographical position. The thought of swallowing thousands of tiny knives every time you gasp for air on a frozen December evening is off-putting, to say the least. Gyms are indoors and centrally heated by the bodies of a hundred sweaty self-loathers. It takes living in a bloody cold climate to make that an appealing prospect.
It's important to note that I never really considered my jogs to be physically beneficial. But my exercise-placebo let me sleep well at night in the Government's assurances I had staved off death by at least another twenty minutes, and in the reckless abandon with which I was playing fast and loose with my knee joints. May we all live to a ripe old osteoporosis-plagued age. And so it was with a veritable vat of trepidation that I approached the gym. Needless to say, the young gentleman staffing reception must have caused several less muscularly endowed males to give up before they'd even made it through the turnstile; even I almost fell victim to the aura of 'Do you really think you'll ever have arms like these? Really? Maybe you should just go home now and sit quietly in your room'. But the moment passed, I regrouped, and I followed him around the warehouse of bodily perfection, repeating the mantra 'Just because I'm not wearing make-up does not mean I am not a valuable member of society, just because I'm not wearing make-up does not mean I am not a valuable member of society'. And do you know what? Everyone was lovely. And healthy looking, not the six-foot, size 4 fitness fanatics I had been dreading. Just some regular folks, keeping that heart healthy. Nobody looked me up and down and smirked at my baggy T-shirt; nobody tapped their foot impatiently whilst I jogged at a modest speed on the treadmill. I may have to invest in some better gym attire, though - scabby old joggers are fine when you are running in the great outdoors, whizzing past possible detractors in a wheezing, underwhelming whirlwind, but I fear gym staff might suspect my direct debit will fail if I continue to turn up in a tramp's approximation of fitness gear.
This positivity does not detract from the fact that my arms still hurt from doing the lightest weights for a length of time notable only for its brevity. However. I will go back. Today. I will go back today. Not to become a size 8, but to convert the fat from the bag of chips and gluttonous slab of home-made chocolate cake that constituted last night's dinner (what, I'm Scottish) into banging size 12 hips. It's a reckless cycle of endangering my heart; rescuing my heart; endangering my heart; rescuing my heart; but as long as I can maintain that healthy midway point between obesity and dead, I think I'm on to a winning formula.
