In the spirit of Easter overindulgence, my thoughts turn to my daily chocolate marathon and ever-increasing wobbly bits. I may consider doing something about my expanding waistline except for the mute point that I'm allergic to exercise - and please don't mention the dreaded gym.
The problem I have with the gym is that it makes me about as excited as Kim Kardashian being told she has to open a new branch of Lidl in Luton.
This observation is partly fuelled by my disdain at the concept of exercising in a windowless cave with bloody awful ‘dance’ music and other people’s flying sweat and partly because I am a lazy arse who would rather chew concrete than waste £150 a month doing squats with strangers.
I have, however, been lured into these places of dulldom on a few occasions – enticed by the free swimming pool in a holiday hotel or going to a charity-raising Pilates session via work.
These are the gym niggles I just can’t get my head around:
• The nakedness. I went to an all-girl’s school for 16 years, I don’t consider myself a prude but women appear to embrace their inner exhibitionist the second they walk through that changing room door and suddenly all in sight are naked. Everyone is bent-over with bum cracks in my face and boobs are flying in every direction. I, meanwhile, have to cower in a corner behind the locker door trying to excavate my bra from underneath my top.
• The testosterone-fuelled competition. There’s always some smug who has to prove he/she can do a the plank on one finger while the rest of us are dying on the floor with cramp or the machos who hang out near the weights in a vest to look cool but never actually lift anything. Plus vests on men are about as appealing as gravel knickers, no matter how buff the dude is.
• The clothing. I wear an ancient shapeless t-shirt and my oldest pair of leggings with the weird bleach stains all over them – I realise this makes me look like a binman at a fashion show but the idea of hotpants and tummy-baring crop-tops in neon makes me nervous. It took childbirth for me to stop caring about how I looked in my underwear (it’s all now officially a lost cause) but I don’t need other people to see my wobbly bits suctioned into lycra. As Patsy once said to Eddie in Ab Fab, “you look like a zeppelin in a condom”.
The gym and I will never be friends – nor exercise for that matter. Don’t get me wrong, I do have an ounce of admiration (or confusion) for people who genuinely get a kick out of spin classes on their lunch-break but it’s most definitely not for me. Give me a long walk outdoors in the fresh air where people have their clothes on, any day of the week.
This post was brought to you with the sound of Sunday Night with Michael Ball - Radio 2
Ab Fab image © mirror.co.uk