So, I've started going to gym.
Again.
I mean, I belong to a gym. And its great: I live with the peace of mind that anytime I wish - anytime at all, I can indeed get off my lazy ass, and get ... whats that mythical thing of which I hear people speak... 'fit'.
Which is also good news for the donkey.
Now before you go all 'what a waste of money' on me, let me say that I used to be pretty good about taking full advantage of my membership.
Three times a week pretty good, in fact. Then I went overseas for a month and thats when things started to go *ahem* pear-shaped.
Now, 'overseas' really means I went back home to visit family. Not a glamarous getaway to some idyllic location where I spent my days wasting away on some bejewelled beach sipping sangrias and working on my hammock technique.
Nay.
I went home.
Going home of course means spending quality time with family, great food, not having to do a whole lot. The perfect storm for blossoming into a human blimp.
It also means getting told how very thin you are and how you need to put some meat on those bones, as mothers the world over tend to do when their prodigal returns from overseas.
And so it was, that my mother took on the responsibility of reaffirming her matriarchial dominance in the family hierarchy, the role of caretaker. Awesome!
I had the most amazing home-cooked meals made for me. Every. Single. Day. And let me tell you, my mother is a great believer in the deep fryer. If it can be dipped in hot oil and sizzled to a golden crisp, it will be. Watching her cook is like watching a sacrificial rite where some pour soul is surrendered into the bubbling wrath of the deep-fryer volcano.
And so, after a month long sojourn at home, being served everything under the sun, (all beautifully crisped, of course) I came home a couple of kilograms heavier, and with a big fat smile on my face and a belly to match.
Gym, was the furtherest thing from my mind.
And this remained so until last week Saturday when I decided to venture out to the gym once more - 2 months on. Ironically, this coincided with panicked realistion that I no longer fitted into my jeans unless I wore them with the button undone, which I can resolutely say is not a good look (unless your going for the whole 'I'm a beer toting trucker' look).
So instead of buying new wind socks erm, I mean jeans, I decided that I already had an investment at the gym and dammit, I would use it. Saturday was the natural choice, given that I knew the gym would be relatively empty. Perfect for refamiliarising myself with where everything was.
It also meant I could adjust the weight down to a couple of bars (to avoid the risk of an annurism) without being scoffed at. Needless to say, after my inaugural workout, I barely made it home, and as I type this, I feel as though I have recently been involved in a severe car collision. I have a new apprecaition of muscles I never knew I had.
Despite the pain, it feels good to feel like I've put some effort in. Each painful letter I type is a testament to the fact that I have made a start, and when it comes to gym, that’s the most difficult part of all.
