Now here’s the thing. What I didn’t plan for when coming back to Glasgow was the rise of ‘the gym’ as a place of worship. And I do mean worship. As every tattooed male under 30 and their fully made up, high haired, Nike spandex wearing girlfriend counterpart (also with tattoos, but delicate ones…like a naff bird on the back or a dove/dolphin/Chinese emblem on the ankle) is at the gym. And when they’re not at the gym, they’re talking about the gym or blogging about the gym. Or Instagraming the shizzle out of the gym. Hell’s teeth, there’s even a Nike outlet store around these parts. People, it’s getting ridiculous. Don’t believe the hype of that deep fried Mars Bar stuff. It’s more likely to be quinoa and lean turkey breast rather than meat and two veg.
And, if some piece of preppie beef isn’t working out in the (scary part of the) gym, filled with machines that look like Transformers then they’re terrorising the likes of the non-gymies in West End bars with ripped muscles that, I have to admit, look good but a tad gayer-than-gay and a bit prepping-to-be the-cover-star of some freebie gay mag paired with narcissism run rife.
In the safe days…we’ll call them the 1980s and 1990s, there was none of this. Hot boys happily rolled out of University or their first jobs and headed down the pub. Now, the hotties or their counterpart not-so-hotties but certainly fitties are more obsessed with their protein to carb ratio and their B.M.I. There’s zero conversation about art, music, philosophy or politics. It’s purely, ‘do I look good in this?’. And much of the time, it’s a ‘no dear’ as it’s some chainstore nonentity t-shirt and jeans combo.
I’m guessing it’s got little to do with health but boredom. Or the rise of the celebrity body and prodigious social media and simply EVERY fricking tosser wanting to be famous. For something. And nothing. As thousands of hoes flock to Snapchat to strip. Meaningful conversation is dead unless it’s body-talking in the gym (as Prefab Sprout once said).
I admit it. The relentless ‘gyminess’ of friends wore me down. So much so, that boredom and low self esteem that climbed in even lower than my borderline unhealthy BMI made me join a gym for a trial period. ‘What do you mean unhealthy?,’ I said. ‘The whole reason for me being here is to lose more weight as well as firm up this. *points to stomach and arse*.
So here I am two weeks in and the newness is wearing off. Fast. The classes are a big thumbs up and I’m delighted that every single teacher has commented on my distant past professional ballet training – which allegedly still shows. But the training programme…OY! All that relentless counting and stepping and stretching and lifting and red-faced’ness (which is highly unattractive) is wearing thin, so much so that today I thought, ‘I think I’ve had enough of this’.
That, and the fortune I’ve spent on gym clothing I hate with brand names everywhere (double-hate) and the fact I still feel like a fat fck two weeks in, is mithering me. No-one tells you that the more you exercise, the more that you’re ravenous and want to eat…oh no. And that myth of ‘it releases endorphins and makes you feel good’. Not true. I don’t have any. I’m still waiting for them to kick in and I’ve been every day. Maybe they’re like my good taste & judgement in men. ie. Non existent.
I’ve a decision to make. To continue. Or not. My legs and arms are becoming solid. I didn’t account for looking like a muscly fat fck who now probably weighs more because of the muscle. The yoga and body conditioning classes are great. I’ve discovered I can’t breathe properly at Pilates nor swimming and I honestly don’t think I have gym disposition. I’m highly frustrated if I can’t get something right away and give up rather than persevere. It’ a bit, *does exercise*. I can’t do that one properly. Pass. What other one can I do? Which is, I’m guessing, the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do.
Looks like the retired, the wealthy bored housewives and the freelancers may loose their uncategory specific latest blogger addition to Team Gym. Who knows. Tomorrow’s another day and I may just keep going.