Gym flunkie

I went to the gym yesterday. I am not a gym person. This is a gross understatement. I am hopelessly uncoordinated and I look awful in lycra. Group physical activity hasn’t been my thing since primary school, when a teacher mimicked my bumbling basketball style for the amusement of my classmates. The last time I went to a gym was 12 months ago, to get a lash tint and brow wax. The last time I went to a gym to exercise was … ooohhhh … six years ago, for water aerobics classes when I was pregnant with Sprog 2 (or was that eight years ago when I was pregnant with Sprog 1?). The last time I went to a gym and actually worked up a sweat? Hmmmm … nup, can’t remember. I got sweaty at the gym yesterday. And I liked it. I was coerced by some school mums wanting me to join their cult. They drop the kids at the school gates and drive like bats out of hell to nab the prime, shady spots in the gym carpark at 8.55am every morning. I’ve been strenuously resisting their advances. I barely have time to blog, tweet, Facebook and lunch. I don’t see how I’m going to fit gym in. Or afford the membership fees after blowing my life savings on trumpet lessons, swimming lessons, keyboard lessons, art lessons and gymnastic lessons for the spoilt Sprogs. But the mums aren’t taking no for an answer – one even played dirty and got the gym to call me, offering a free session. So I sighed and said I’d be there at 9am on Monday. I still have eight kilos to lose before Hawaii and jogging to the newsagent for my daily David Attenborough DVD ain’t moving it (admittedly, the bacon and egg sandwiches aren’t helping). Much time was spent/wasted in front of the mirror beforehand, trying on ancient gym gear and rejecting it as too shame inducing. I eventually decided on cargo shorts and a baggy, old t-shirt. I looked terrible, but less terrible than if I’d worn my vintage bright purple and blue leggings with matching midriff top. I did 25 minutes on the stepper, 20 minutes of weights (including a human spatchcocking machine the mums assured me was “good for the clacker”), 10 minutes on the treadmill and 55 minutes of gossiping. I felt brilliant as I drove home, all uplifted (and informed). Wow, this gym thing, such a natural high! Then I remembered the Diet Coke I’d inhaled post-session. Well, I’m sure there was endorphin action in there somewhere. So I’m off to the gym again today to discuss membership options sans stimulants. I wonder if they accept stacks of gold coins as down payment?