Yesterday, I went to the gym. Due to the operation on my shoulder, I hadn’t been able to go for about three weeks, and yesterday I definitely noticed the difference. Before that, I was lazy. Well, I still kinda am, but before it was maybe one of the most notable things about me. Deadly sin sloth, my old friend. It all started at the end of April, when The BF probably had enough of me complaining I had gained weight (8 kg in two years, otherwise I’m not really one to complain about that stuff) and told me to just come along with him and try it out.
I had tried different things before, none of which stuck. I really hated sports, they weren’t fun, they were just work, and I didn’t see the point. I couldn’t understand those other people who did something regularly. I thought I would never be one of them. But after I went with him that day it wasn’t as horrible as I had anticipated. It was surprisingly OK. So I continued to go, although The BF and I still had to force myself, until it became a habit. Twice a week, for 1 1/2 – 2 hours. And oh, the things you can see there.
The gym company we are inscribed to (yes, it has come that far) has two studios in the area. One is better than the other, because the space is clearer, the air cooler and the people less creepy. Unfortunately, the other one is easier of access for people like us who use public transportation. The tram ride over there is an adventure on it’s own, because it ends in one of the most run-down parts of the town. In there, however, is where it really gets interesting. There are a lot of the very chunky muscular types, types with little intelligence it seems, but much width. As in they have to go through doorways sideways. They always pack on too much weight and then make very quick movements on the machines, which causes them to make weird noises. Like they’re having some kind of tense, exhausting, show-off sex. That’s also the look they have when they walk around. I always make sure they understand I’m here with someone, don’t dare try to pick me up, he can kill you with his bare hands. Sadly, some still think the gym is the perfect place to hit on someone, as if the lack of breath, profuse sweat and bulging body parts were some kind of a turn on for women, although I think I make it pretty clear I’m concentrating on something else right now.
Speaking of women, you don’t see very many in there. Occasionally there are some overweight or midlife women, and I admire them for their effort. Really, I could be standing next to them and root, and I don’t feel like I’m competing with them. Then there are those who look like they do this way too much, or at a too young age, when I can’t help but wonder if this is part of their anorexic routine. And there are those who match the men, usually have one next to them coaching, and basically just want to show off as well. I don’t like those. But the ones who really annoy me are those in the dressing room. First of all, I prefer to be alone, but I get that that would be luxury. But secondly, do they have to look like that? So refreshed? I don’t get it! When I’m done and go to change, I’m definitely sweaty, totally red in the face and my hair is like plastered to my head. I try splashing my face with water, bending under the hair-dryer to air out, cover my self in deodorant spray, whatever. Never do I come out looking like them – like they were never there for exercise in the first place, like they’re ready for a night on the town.
But here I am, I’m sticking to it, sweat and all (although I can’t stand sweat) and I realise that it’s really doing me some good. Not only have I lost a few pounds, I feel healthier and am more accepting of my body again. I was actually able to run for a train once, in unpractical shoes, faster than before and without being out of breath. Now that’s progress, my friends. So thanks to The BF, my most crucial capital vice has been turned around, which even influenced the next one on my list – gluttony. Since I’ve been fitter I’m much less tempted by unhealthy food. Even Burger King! Hardly did he know he might have saved me from eternal damnation – if it weren’t for all that pre-marital sex. Oh well.