As We Decide To Exercise Again

Monday mornings at dawn will usually find me doing one of three things:

1) lying in bed in a deep slumber
2) having a warm shower
3) desperately trying to sober up for the upcoming work day.

It should NOT be spent in the middle of a punishing and unforgiving gym routine, which is of course what I found myself doing recently.

Shaun - Involved In A Punishing And Unforgiving Work Routine.

“You look like a pregnant man. Doesn’t this concern you?” whined the Girlfriend the other day, interrupting my viewing of Isidingo… The Need, and causing me to drop my whiskey tumbler to the floor.

“Of course it does, but I’ll let you sort something out” I said dismissively, whilst attempting to lick the spilt Jameson off the floor. I was expecting her to buy tanning lotions and the weight loss coffee we saw at Glomail, which literally eats away your fat cells in an aggressive yet medically safe manner.

The Girlfriend however, had grown tired of my chicken legs and under-developed upper body, and instead of coffee, had arranged for us to join the nearby Virgin Active, another brainchild of Richard Branson, and the scourge of lazy and pigeon-chested fellows everywhere.

Bizarrely, given the ungodly time, we arrived to find the place buzzing with activity, full of sweaty individuals risking heart failure in the pursuit of a six-pack, and not the type you could get in the backroom of the local 7-11 in Kenilworth either.

No, these men and women clearly meant business, and their naked enthusiasm and ripped torsos NEARLY had me feeling motivated and inspired, until I slumped down on one of the nearby couches and let the moment pass.

The gym, although offering massively expensive fees, still boasted an eclectic blend of people from different walks of life, with whites and blacks exercising side by side in perfect racial harmony, much like a Carling Black Label television advert, although no one took me up on the offer to drink a crate of beer afterward.

My personal trainer eventually pitched up, armed with massive biceps as huge as my ego, with an uber trendy name to match. Ryder was the lad’s name, no doubt given to him by hippy liberal parents who smoked too much marijuana, drove a brightly coloured Beetle, and were not to be trusted around items of value. I certainly didn’t trust Ryder, watching in mild panic as he posed and postured in front of The Girlfriend, who swooned at the sight of his admittedly impressive frame.

Our personalised programs dictated that she would be sent to the rowing machine for cardio work, whilst I was hauled to the weights section, to be put on the upper body program specifically designed for twelve year old boys. The pre-pubescent kids of today seem to be living on protein and steroid juice, as I humiliated myself trying to lift the dumbbells, much to the surprise of my trainer, who I now regarded as a mortal enemy of mine.

Writing off the weights, it was off to the treadmills for some speed training. The only sprinting I do is at the Table Mountain nature reserve, where I am often forced to dash off to evade the delinquent youths who try to mug and stab me. These regular exertions clearly paid off though, as I managed to complete my sprinting program without dying, in the process producing enough perspiration to fill up the Olympic pool downstairs, which was ironically our next destination.

I was now clad in a tight-fitting Speedo which disappointingly was relatively bulge-free, OBVIOUSLY due to the unpleasantly cold conditions, as I kept informing passers by who seemed unconvinced.

Nevertheless, despite the freezing temperatures, I managed to doggy paddle my way through two whole laps, earning the respect of the crowd who had gathered to watch, and getting a great send off once Ryder pulled me out of the pool with one of his tree trunk arms.

So that’s been the gist of my first gym training session in yonkers. My ego feels bruised, my entire body hurts, and I’m walking around in a strange and peculiar manner.

It’s like my first day at High School all over again.

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