Grim at the gym

I officially joined the gym this week – after a rather expensive trial period – and I’m already jack of it. It’s been six weeks of blood, sweat and tears and I don’t see the slightest improvement in my body. I put myself through five agonising gym classes each week and for what? The scales haven’t moved, my belt notches haven’t either. I can’t do the simplest things like planking or this weird pilates cycling move while lying on my side. When I try, all my muscles seize up and scream at me to stop. Meanwhile, all the wrinklies lie beside me pedalling their little, shrivelled feet like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I hate them and their smug, shrivelled feet and their ridiculous stamina. I hate the gym instructors too, well, the ones who blather inanely. It’s like those taxi rides where you pray for a silent driver. I really need to be in the mood – or drunk – to listen to strangers jabber about their personal lives. Being tortured by reverse sit-ups is not one of those times. Going to the gym is also eating enormous holes in my spare time. I rush around like a blue-arsed fly every Tuesday and Thursday morning so I can drop and run the Sprogs and speed to the gym in time for a 9am abs class, followed by an hour of pilates. Then I hare off to grocery shop or blog or collect Easter bunny packages from stupid Australia Post mail centres three suburbs away (who came up with that ridiculous new system, huh?) before school pick-up. Most days I am wild-eyed with over-scheduling by the time Husband arrives home from work. (It’s possible the can of V I inhale while grocery shopping isn’t helping my anxiety levels.) People are saying I look more toned, but I think they’re just trying to make me feel better. I’m stuck with my stomach poddle forever and I’ll never be able to plank for 60 seconds. I am a fitness failure, trapped for the next 12 months, membership fees being deducted from my bank account every fortnight. And because I’m such a tight-arse, I’ll have to keep going to get my money’s worth. Blah. It’s like bloody dieting. I could handle a few days, a week maybe, and pffft, it was over, you were sorted. But months? Years? Forever? Where’s the fun in that?

PS Click on the blue circle above to vote for me in the 50 Top Bloggers comp. You could win $5000 …

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7 thoughts on “Grim at the gym

  1. From one tight-arse (with flabby cheeks) to another to another, I thoroughly endorse your decision to continue going just to get your money’s worth. Eventually it will pay off. Those muscles are underneath there somewhere. I found mine the other day at yoga. Each time I finished holding a pose I let out a huge groan-y sigh of relief which is probably annoying to my fellow yogees but I swear, it’s an involuntary reaction.

    You always come up with such clever titles for your posts!

  2. you doing it for the rest of us … we who are to chicken, lazy or child-laden to try. If you can prove it works … then maybe I’ll give it a go.

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