VIEWPOINT
Recalling previous attempts to get fit, this time our columnist plans to stick with it – after all, her future mobility is at stake
I honestly don’t dare to begin totting up how much money I’ve wasted over the years each time I’ve thought, ‘Yes, these are essential outgoings. You’ll never, ever motivate yourself to exercise at home. You hate doing exercises. You’re lazy. You don’t know how to do them properly. Your body is deteriorating at a phenomenal rate – look at the bingo wings on your upper arms; look at the spare tyre around your middle; look at the way that once flat, taut torso now bulges out in any frock or T-shirt that used to fit. There’s only one way to rectify this sagging morass: join a gym.’
And join a gym I did. Many, many times. On each occasion I agreed to pay the monthly fee by direct debit. Cheaper, of course, but only a little. Each time I began with unbridled enthusiasm. First, the kit. A backpack, naturally. No point in undoing all the good work by carrying a heavy bag on one shoulder. It must be a roomy backpack. And into it will go brand new, pristine trainers and socks; shorts, T-shirt – cotton – for work on the equipment; tights and leotard for the yoga, Pilates and dance classes; swimsuit for the final few lengths in the pool, followed by the steam room and sauna; shampoo and shower gel for the thorough wash down at the end – plus make-up, hairbrush, deodorant and moisturiser. Each time I planned to emerge like a goddess.
I’m not sure I ever did. I tried ever so hard. I took the advice of personal trainers who showed me how to lift weights without doing myself in. I joined the classes for stretching and learning how to move like a cat, a dog or even a crab. I pretended I loved getting into the pool in my elegant new swimsuit and doing 20 lengths of Olympic-quality breast stroke. I lay in the sauna as if I loved the heat on my back as I reclined on the wooden benches. Truly, I hated every minute.
It was no different from all those years at school when you’d go to the gym, knowing you would be expected to fly over the pommel horse, climb a rope and mount the high wall bars, all in a little white vest and big, baggy grey knickers. It could not have been more unattractive. The only physical education at which I was thought to have any talent was swimming. Perhaps it was because my father had taught me in the cold North Sea at Scarborough when I was tiny. He held me under my tummy, taught me the strokes and eventually let go so that I was moving forward under my own steam. I loved it, but I suspect it was only because it kept me in close proximity to the father I adored. It was different at school.
