Bally-Hoo
Today I joined a gym. I didn’t intend to. The idea was to look around, get a feel for it and then check out a couple of other places next week. Now I know what you’re thinking… it’s a cliche to join up in this month of fresh hope and new beginnings. Did you know that 89% of people who join a gym in January work out just 3 times before caving in to apathy and self loathing? But this depressing (and made up) statistic is no reason to slob out and do bugger all. I now live in a city where looks are premium and books are always judged by their cover. So, following a boozy Christmas of excess and added pounds I decided to break the mold. I want to become one of the beautiful people… killer body and everything. Shallow? Pah!
I’d like to say the reason I joined the first establishment I saw was because it was so plush and well equipped it couldn’t possibly be topped. Maybe it can’t be. Maybe I struck gold. But that’s not the reason. Here’s the real reason. I was bedazzled by the lame sales patter of a twenty-something uneducated droid and was too polite to say no. Essentially I’m weak. And she knew it. By the time she offered me (and only me) a ‘special’ introductory joining fee of just $75 I was literally begging to sign-up. I’m not ashamed. It’s a good gym. And it’s convenient. A textbook win/win situation. By the way, it’s called Bally Fitness and my membership is locked in for THREE years. Tough negotiator? Moi?
One of the perks of joining is a free work out with a personal trainer so I booked my session for 3pm. Meanwhile, I nipped off to buy a new pair of trainers and have lunch. I arrived back promptly and psyched to kickstart my new regime.
I love my personal trainer. She destroyed me and I haven’t had a more satisfying 60 minutes of exercise in a long time. But I became obsessed with a quandary and it’s still eating away at me. Is my personal trainer a transsexual or a hormone user? Was she always a woman or was she born a man? She has a pretty face, massive, firm looking tits and a tight body. But she also has a deep voice, a vice for a handshake and a six-o’clock shadow on her upper lip. It’s at this point that my blog becomes confessional. Let me explain why… despite dripping with sweat and struggling for breath I kept trying to steal glances, surreptitiously searching for signs of an Adam’s apple (and worse, hint of a bulge between her legs). Does this make me a bad person? I wasn’t judging. I was just curious. Regardless, she did a great job and I’m primed to achieve my new physique. For that I’m thankful.
At this point I’ll sign off before I do more damage to my rapidly ailing credibility.
PS. If you’re wondering why there’s no mention of fatherly duties today it’s because T was at pre-school.
