It's Life - Gym

The first time I went to the gym I had a panic attack.

Or at the very least I was short of breath, tearful and panicking which is probably the closest I will ever get unless I meet Shirley Bassey. I would like to say it was caused by overly aggressive treadmilling or lifting too much weight. But it wasn’t. It happened on the way there.

Gyms remind me of gym class and as such of pain, ridicule and my sexy gym teacher. Whilst I couldn't be sure he would be there, I was confident the pain and ridicule would. Luckily I arrived a minute late and my friend had gone in without me. Afraid to go in alone, I walked home instead, hoping that any one walking past, seeing me in gym wear with sore wet eyes and shaking limbs, would assume I’d just left a spinning workout.

I still workout in a state of trepidation though no one has laughed at me yet or slapped me with a wet towel.

It's not that I don't enjoy it. Once I get past the initial ‘can't be arsed stage’ and actually put on my gym clothes it’s quite fun. It’s more that the benefits are so wearyingly slow to materialize, taking many weeks to show up, that one can happily contribute them to some other, more satisfying, factor.

"I’ve lost so much weight this week and all I’ve done is eat fast food! Quick, order me three pizzas, two buckets of KFC, five chocolate bars, a diet coke and a book contract! The world must be told!"

There must be easier ways. I could get my stomach stapled, or my flab removed by a doctor posing as a chainsaw wielding maniac. For a hundred quid I could get the fat sucked out of me and sent to a third world country, but no, I have to do it the hard way!

So I sweat it out at the gym, along with the thin people sweating it out trying to gain weight, and the fit people sweating it out trying to stay fit, and the short people sweating it out trying to reach the treadmill controls.

Then at the first signs of weight loss I’ll go out for McDonald's to celebrate. The weight piles back on and, deciding the workout isn’t working, I’ll eventually quit and try alcohol instead.

But dissatisfied, bored, and demanding more looks from the fit boys in the clubs, I'll be back a month later, the sweat pouring off my face and collecting in a pool at the top of my over sized stomach. There I’ll be - panting for breath, wheezing, exerting every ounce of strength I have until finally, with a sigh of relief, I manage to do up my gym trousers.

And joining the rest of the self-flagellators, I’ll wait patiently in line for my turn on the treadmill.

Previous Fitness Foibles

• Gym Duracell Bunny
• The Duracell Bunny's Competitor
• Hunger Shock