As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.
It’s not like I haven’t bitched about my weight before right? I hadn’t been worrying about it the past year; after all I’d managed to lose 5-6 kilos without even thinking about it. Like Miranda who “had a baby and forgot to eat”, I did an MBA and forgot to eat and sleep. During the past year I pulled off some seriously skimpy stuff and managed to look very good in it too. Like this white strapless and semi-backless little dress (yes, it’s possible and it’s pure sin). I did the unthinkable in fact, my face lost weight and lord knows that never happened even when I tried hard.
But all good things come to an end. I am losing the sexy and getting chunky back. And I am afraid to even try the white dress on for fear of throwing up in disgust. I could barely recognise myself in the cafe mirror today. Also, I am in serious need of a haircut, my skin looks like shit (I don’t know why, I get enough rest, I eat plenty of fruit, drink water..you know the drill), etc etc.
Anyway, of late I’ve been trying to fix the weight issue. Jogging, swimming and something I’ve never done before – If I leave the building, I take the stairs back up when I come back. All nine motherfucking storeys. Uh-huh. It’s not as hard as I thought it’d be.
In the same vein, I visited Brendan’s gym yesterday. Man was that a bad idea. You should know that I have always loathed gyms. Many a rant on juice has been devoted to that. And all that was from just seeing exhibitionists jog at glass windows facing Orchard road. I had never experience a main-stream large-scale gym from within. At least not for more than the ten minutes it took me to give a complete asshole of a physical trainer a piece of my mind at the one I visited the last time.
I am glad to report back that my opinion of gyms was not misguided at all and that I’d need a lobotomy every day if I had to drag myself to a hellhole like this. How do I hate thee…let me count the ways…
1. The weighing machine in the common area is one of those ancient ones with a sliding scale where you move a ruler along till it balances. This means you can measure your weight accurately to the nearest twenty. My weight range is between 40-60 kilos. Of course, the one the trainer uses to make you feel bad about yourself is probably a highly digitised one that measures to the nearest miligram and tells you that your fat percentage is common only among rhinos with cardiac issues. Gee, I wonder what their agenda is.
2. There were 4 levels of equipment lined up – treadmills, exercycles, strange sitting exercycles, stepping machines, strange backward stepping machines… Everyone there pinned their locker keys to the ends of their towels, wore the teeshirts and shorts of the gym and panted away in tandem. It was like watching a circus of gerbils – very unhappy, tired, zombie gerbils.
3. Bad music. Really bad angsty rock. Evanescence bad.
4. The bench press, leg press, boat press, garlic press etc machines all smelled like old sweat. I could feel vomit building up inside everytime my elbows touched.
5. They were having kick-boxing and spinning classes with instructors acting super lame in an attempt to encourage their trainees. It was really lame. Also, I hate the word “spinning”, it’s a bicyle without wheels. Get over it.
6. The pool. I realise this isn’t as much of a downer for other normal people (who don’t hate the world) but the pool was filled with girls in string bikinis who CLEARLY aren’t working out. More like working it (which granted, they were).
7. I had to wait 15 minutes for a shower cubicle. What is this, a public toilet?
8. Speaking of overcrowding, how do they sell so many subscriptions when clearly they’re already oversubscribed? I mean you have to wait even to offload your stuff into a locker because someone’s always in front of you using the locker next to yours. You can’t turn a corner here without running into somebody’s armpit. (No, that is not a “short” joke).
9. Okay that didn’t count. But not having hot water in the shower does. Touche.
10. And the worst, most horrible reason why I died a little inside was not because of the gym at all. It was because Brendan was showing me how to work some machine and he was counting the number of presses I did.
Wrongly. You know in that annoying douchey way the trainers do it so that you end up doing more than they tell you to? Like you’ve done 7 and Mr.GPA 1.5 has only finished counting to 4…Or “2 more to go” and one press later it’s still “2 more to go, come on!”
Yeah. Pissed me off to no end. Thirty thousand times more than the stupid naked chick hogging the locker next to mine while she figured out how to put on a bra for the first time.
Thirty thousand is also the number of brownie points Brendan flushed down the toilet that evening for his clever little trick. There is no liquidity in his brownie point economy and he better issue some new equity soon.
Never again, Jups. Never again.
P.S. Soup’s featuring heavily in my diet and I went swimming again tonight. And I took the stairs back thereafter. All nine motherfucking storeys.
P.P.S I just spent twenty minutes reading old posts on Juice and laughing my heart out. Future-me always loves reading old-me posts. I LOVE MY BLOG SO MUCH!