In order to lose a bit of weight and to improve my general well-being, I’ve joined a gym. I boldly, and somewhat recklessly, paid for the entire year’s membership up front. By doing so I’ve mentally and financially committed myself to going, plus I managed to get 14 months for the price of 12 so it was a good deal.
Nothing sexier than a man who loves a bargain is there, but I digress…
It’s not a New Years Resolution or anything like that. I’ve got a list of New Years Resolutions and they include giving up things that are bad for me. Bungee jumping being one of them. I was up to 4 a day at one point which isn’t good for anyone. No, this seeking more exercise is a necessary thing. I have a couple of health issues which can best be sorted out by me getting off my fat arse and doing some bloody exercise. I contemplated going on a diet, but I hate diets. It’s no coincident the word ‘diet’ contains the word ‘die’, so I ain’t going there. More exercise is the key.
I bought some new sporting equipment and went for my first session, and for the first five minutes or so stood there trying to work out what to use first. I have a problem with gym equipment that’s a bit too much like ‘Life stuff’ or too much like ‘doing stuff outside’ so I don’t use the bikes, as I could cycle if I wish, or treadmills, as I can walk and run if I want to. In addition I also have to walk home from the gym so if I use up all my energy running or walking on the treadmill how the hell will I get home? Other equipment includes a step machine so high I can’t use it as I have vertigo. I get dizzy standing on a chair so anything involving heights also, in my opinion, requires the possession of wings, so no way Jose. Actually I’m not scared of heights, it’s falling from a great height and hitting the ground I’m very scared of. Also, I have stairs at home so it falls into the category of ‘gym equipment that’s like doing normal stuff”.
I like the rowing machine as I don’t have a boat, so I gave that a go. I used the weights for a while and that seemed fun. As I left each machine I adjusted the weights to a few more kg than I’d pressed and pulled because it makes me look good and I’m a very very sad man. I had a go on those massive round rubber balls but was told they’re not Space Hoppers and I should move on, which killed my buzz a bit. Then I hit gold; the cross trainer. Its not like walking, running or doing anything you would outside. It’s like doing all three. Vigorously. Huzzah! The cross trainer’s for me. Because moving your arms and legs like a clockwork monkey for half an hour is just the sort of exercise you want for £220 a year.
The gym has fitness classes which I can book online. I’m up for some Zumba but one of those sessions is at 6.15am, so I’ll look for a later one as I’m barely capable of speaking at 6.15am let alone moving my arms and legs in a rhythmic manner. The other sessions all sound a little full on. Body Pump. Body Combat. Body Jam. Body Attack. Insanity. Insanity just sounds mental so I’ll probably not bother with that. Body Jam sounds good. I wonder if it comes with scones and cream?
The gym has the lot. Along with a rather cunning method of entry. No more going into town and thinking ‘Darn, I can’t go to the gym as I’ve forgotten my ID card.’ My ID card is my fingerprint. I pop my index finger into a slot and the doors open for me, so I can’t ever use the excuse ‘Oh I’ve forgotten my ID card’ unless I leave my hand at home, which is unlikely.
So it’s got the lot, but amongst all the equipment and fitness paraphernalia, what surprised me most was the amount of equipment on display, in the male changing room.
I used to play football so I’m used to dressing rooms, and a certain amount of flesh on display, but here there were cocks, bellends, tallywhackers and knobs of all shapes and sizes all over the place. It didn’t matter what size or shape of gentleman was there, and believe me when I say not all were sculpted Adonis-like forms of physical perfection, all were proud to let their sausage swing. I’ve never seen so many schlongs, dongs, tools or todgers. It was like Clapham Cockjunction. I knew it was a members only gym but I didn’t realise that this referred to the dress code in the changing rooms. No placing a towel around the waist and moving discreetly from the shower to your locker here. No way. People were striding around, doing stretching warm ups with one leg on the bench, dangerously close to me as I was sitting down doing my laces up trying not to look at anything at all. At one point I was perilously close to being knocked out by flailing phallus from a man who was stretching a little too close to where I was sitting. I was going to ask him to ‘move over a bit old chap’ but his old chap looked like it was capable of speaking for him. It was so big I thought he had a hoover with him. Or a small child. A small child with one eye.
Undaunted by this I’ll return to the gym on Thursday. I’m not intimidated by the size, shapes, lengths or girth of what’s on display, but I might go earlier in the day, when it’s quieter. After all, you don’t want lots of mens cocks rammed down your throat first thing in the morning.
Thanks for reading.