This year I made two new resolutions: the first, that I was going to give up drinking in response to the intervention my liver and my conscience somehow managed to stage over the festive period. Needless to say, offer of red or white that came via text from a previously aforementioned bad influence, put an end to that after six days. Six long, dull alcohol free days. But, all is not lost. I replaced that really quite unachievable solution with something that is much more tangible; 2012 will be the year I learn to play the ukulele. I think that’s a fair substitute, right? And judging by the really rather awesome performance on the newly introduced air ukulele, I’M GONNA ROCK! Although I do feel I should pay homage to the fact that this new hair brain scheme was spawned from that alcoholic haze that I had been trying to avoid. Ah well, irony has always been my friend.
This all leads me on to the second resolution I made: to start going to the gym. I’ve been a member of said gym for over a year and I think it’s fair to say that our relationship is sporadic at best. The first time I went, I cashed in on my complimentary introduction with a personal trainer, only to find I couldn’t move for the next week and therefore rendered myself completely incapable of completing exercise of any kind until I could fully straighten my limbs. AND APPARENTLY THATS NORMAL?! AND THEN THEY GO BACK FOR MORE?! Seriously, what’s up with that? The way I felt after my induction I woke up the next morning more than slightly indignant by the fact that there was neither a six pack or a bicep in sight.
None of this is helped by the fact that no one at the gym ever actually seems to be in anything other than perfect shape, or else morbidly obese. I spoke to a friend of mine recently who has noted the same thing. She said that she invested in a fitness DVD to help her get in shape before actually going to the gym. Is this really what exercise has come to? That we have to get fit before we can even go to the gym? It certainly seems that way judging by some of the behaviour that goes on in the men’s locker rooms. Amongst the many Romanesque men in there, air-drying their testicles and doing that thing where each one of their pec’s seemingly dances to its own rhythm, the normal man is very much the minority. For these pec dancing, bicep bulging, hormonally and genetically enhanced specimens, half the reason for going to the gym revolves around the prolonged periods of nudity and the drying of one’s genitals that seems to intrinsically linked to any form of exercise.
I would say that will-power made me survive the locker room, but I think it was actually the fear of being forever consumed in the testosterone haze that drove me on. Nothing was going to stop me. No possible excuse as to why I couldn’t complete some form of physical exercise. No possibly excuse why my muscles would remain untoned. No possible excuse why... I’m procrastinating aren’t I? I do this a lot. I go with the best intentions and then realise that after a few of those up and down things on the weight machine (‘reps’ I believe they are called) that my muscles feel like they are actually on fire whilst the customary pumping tunes morph into the music of the apocalypse. Drums, I hear drums. Probably just my heart, but you can’t beat a bit of well timed percussion to help it all along. I get to wondering if any of this is helped by the fact that my most recent gym session followed the evening of the breaking of the alcohol resolution, so I was facing two of my nemesis; exercise and hangovers.
But putting my best foot forwards, I seized the moment. I said yes to exercise.
I also said yes to the treadmill in between the two fatties ‘cus y’know, ego boost and all that. I then said yes to the bottle of wine and the take away later that evening to ease the pain! What can I say? It’s a vicious circle!