fitness machine

I’ve joined the gym.

I’m cleaning up my act.

I found it hard to believe that anyone joined a gym because they thought it would be a house full of good times. Until now, that is.

It’s going to be hard, but quite frankly, the thought of torturing myself through the medium of spandex has me itching to go.

Wwas So enthusiastic to turn my life around yesterday, I nearly jumped right onto the treadmill wearing my gold golf shoes (which, are, all the rage in Europe, have you know.)

But contained myself.

The way I see it, it’s not self-destructive torture. And my posterior might – might – even be beach ready for the throbbing beaches of the Caribbean in 6 weeks time.

I’ll thump a whole into that treadmill, row on that machine until my arms squeal in pain, and cycle until I fall off the bike, taking the saddle along with me.

I’ve joined the gym in my office park for two reasons. One, I can impose this heinous torture during the convenience of a lunch break, and two – I know myself too well. If I have to take a detour for a gym, sit in traffic for a gym, go out of my way for a gym, this little project won’t last helluva long.

I need to stumble upon a gym; I need to be able to roll there.

And now I can.

Maybe – maybe – some of my emo frustration will set loose like a pair of Madonna’s doondies, and maybe – maybe – I’ll become a fighting fitness machine whose life is ruled by sport and chick-lit and maybe – maybe – I’ll end up doing triathlons and take an interest in the sports channels on my DSTV decoder – and maybe – just maybe – worst case scenario, I’ll look good in a pair of Gortex.

Or maybe I’ll just get fit and sleep better.

If I don’t die of an ambolism. Training starts lunchtime today.

Seems Dad and I think exactly alike, to the hour. That’s both frightening and welcoming. Eccentricism does love company, believe you me.

Dad: Joined the gym today.

Peas: Get out. So did I.

Dad: No. You didn’t.

Peas: Yes I bloody well did.

Dad: Always been skeptical of gyms.

Peas: Get out. So am I.

Dad: Walking around with a sweat towel around my neck, clutching a water bottle.

Peas: You’re not wearing a vest though. Tell me you’re not wearing a wifebeater to your workout.

Dad: Sweat towel’s draped around my neck. That’s what all the other people do at gyms. Did you know that.

Peas: Why’d you join?

Dad: To get out of the BLOODY wind. Cape Town wind is driving me crazy.

Peas: Fair enough. What’s your workout plan?

Dad: Dunno. Still trying to work out how half the machines work.

Peas: Yeah. With you there.

dusting off the machinery

I'm officially back on my bike!
As the sting of my apparently-existing hamstrings starts to eat away at my Arty Brain (Arty Brain: a concept of being that prefers to lie on the couch watching telly/read a book/discuss an art movie/listen to 80s music) kicks in, I just remember a few things:

I want to be a friggin raging supermodel machine.

I will feel happy afterwards. Apparently there are little things called “endorphins” that kick in and make you feel super. Well I'm lacking clearly, because the only thing that used to make me feel instantly high and happy was A Grade pot. The Rastas will agree with me here, no doubt.

It means I can have super duper acrobatic sex.

And. I'll garner respect from those fitness freaks that tend to bombard me haphazardly during my weeks and make me feel like she who not only ate all the pies, but she who ate all the pies, the pie shop and Mrs Miggins. And bloody well enjoyed it.

Somewhere beneath the ruddy exterior of my thighs, there's a muscle screaming to come out.

PS: Like all habits, getting into a regular fitness routine takes five tries. Then you're in. You're part of the “I Exercise On A Regular Basis” club.
Smoking takes longer. And quitting makes you fat, psycho and dumb. Dumb because you have no idea where to put the hands. Fuck it. One thing at a time. Assholes.