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It’s cold as hell, your legs ache and you’ve been caught in the rain without an umbrella. People are wandering around with maps. Spar is making a profit again.
The reality of the gym...
It’s September, Freshers’ Week. It’s Student New Year. We see it in in style – most people celebrate New Year with a night on the lash, ending with a drunken fumble and a kebab. We do our New Year with a week of binge-drinking and sore feet.
But traditions must be adhered to – September arrives and Operation “Sort Your Life Out” begins. One of my housemates is cutting down on the booze and quitting smoking (maybe).Others are vowing to actually go to lectures this year. Me? I’m embarking on a new relationship. It’s not new housemates, it’s not a new boyfriend. It’s far, far scarier than that: I’m joining the gym.
At home, I went to the gym with the parents. The place itself was just outside my home village, which is populated exclusively by old people and chavs, with very little middle ground. At 7am, it was only the old people who were around, so during my early-morning rowing session I was usually sandwiched between my mother and an 80-something man called Cyril who liked to engage me in conversation while I was still half asleep. I cross-trained alongside a 60 year old woman called Val. At the very worst, I passed by my pervy high school physics teacher on my way to the water dispenser. I was hardly surrounded by gym bunnies.
But this is different.
During my first year I witnessed something horrific: two flatmates coming back from a torture session at the gym. “Oh my God, I feel like I’ve really earnt this salad! I can’t believe we went for that long on the treadmill!”. They were looking forward to salad. Two girls who loved to binge on chocolate had been brainwashed into lettuce-loving. It confirmed my worst fears. In my head most gyms are inhabited by slender blondes in Lycra, throwing smouldering looks at the muscle-bound guys on the weight machines. In short, it was an Eric Prydz video, with a couple of sweaty manshapes thrown in.
Alas, it has to be done. I shall go forth to sweat alongside salad enthusiasts, I will flounder next to flat-tummied beauties, because at the end of the day armpit puddles ain’t a good look on anyone. But if I ever come out craving a carrot, you’ll know I’ve flipped.
