I’ve joined a gym three times in my life. Three very different gyms, in three different cities, for three completely different reasons.
The first time was in Sydney, many, many moons ago, when I joined a gym in the basement of the Sydney Hilton. I would wake up every morning at 5.30am, bus into town, work out, sweat and then swim. I did that for about a year, the year before I left Australia for a new life in Europe. The reason I joined, upon reflection, is somewhat hysterical. I had stopped taking the pill, I had quit smoking, and I was getting my female form fit and ready to welcome a little person. I joined a gym so I could have a baby.
So there is no baby, that boyfriend and I parted ways when I left Sydney, but I really did love that gym. It was so prohibitively expensive; the place was empty most mornings. The finely honed baby carrying form that boarded a 747 to London would be soft with cheese and wine after barely 6 months in Paris.
Don’t join a gym for someone else.
The second time I joined, I was in Paris. I found a gym with a pool, two Metros and 40 minutes from my front door. I would wake up at 6, train it across Paris, sweat and swim, before training it all the way back to the office. I had again, quit smoking, I was on a mission to turn my body into the most delectable of treats. I was angry, I was sad, I was a weeping emotional mess most days, and the gym was my revenge strategy against the man that broke me.
After many hours watching French women wash, rather than having a baby, I spent my mornings observing where French babies came from. Life took over, I was travelling more often than not, and the increasing cost and my decreasing motivation saw a quick end to that year of fitness. A year with more time spent in early morning public transport than actually exercising anything at all.
I should also mention that Giovanni, the ‘trainer’, was a self-obsessed bicep-kissing wanker. Giovanni, like any good Personal Trainer, inspired me. Unfortunately, he did not inspire me to get fit, but he did inspire violent fantasies of me messing the lines on his fake tan.
Do not join a gym that is farther away from your house than the pub.
On this most recent occasion, I joined the gym on a whim. Whims work well for me. Putting too much thought into planning and preparation is wasted. I’m now in London, I’m smoking (again) and I work harder than ever. One evening, while staring into the sky, I contemplated. I was probably drunk; I tend to contemplate to fill the time between holding the glass and raising it to my lips. Anyway, after a few months of family touristing, after too long spent lying in on Saturdays nursing another hangover, after a stint in Ballroom Dancing Lessons with another wanker-teacher-self-obsessed-Narcissus, I examined the softening mess that carried my bones and my brains. If I was going to carry anything heavier than a wine bottle and a bag of crisps, it was time for a change.
There is no baby, not even a remote chance of one. I have no designs to give up the fags, not the nicotine ones anyway. My goal is not to shrink or give up the drink. My goal is singular, I want to be happy.
Join a gym because you want to.
So now I’m two months in. I’m writing this on a Sunday morning after running to Westminster and back, the longest I’ve ever gone without stopping. 4 of my 8 knuckles are grazed and my right kneecap is currently sans skin. In the past week I’ve made one trip to hospital for a sports related injury, one trip to NikeTown for new tights and seven trips to the gym. #yeseveryday #yesivebecomeTHATperson
It’s really all about Bear (as in Grylls).
Bear is a man a handful of years beyond my own. He is an ex-Army, martial arts guru and expert on all things muscular, digestive and vascular. Our relationship is very much a give and take. He takes my money. I give him the full force of two fists in his chest. After decades of being beaten down by very nasty men, I figure it is high time for me to get my own back.
Boxing has, for me, been a fucking revelation.
Despite my foul mouth, I’ve never considered myself to be especially violent. I’m a bit scared of everything really; heights, spiders, most people who aren’t my mother, meeting new people at large gatherings, failure, being naked, falling over, the list could tattoo both of my thighs…in fine print. So it was a genuine revelation the first time Bear let me wear his gloves and punch at him. #40yrsoffrustration
Bear is 6 foot of solid muscle with kind eyes and a gentle tone. He stands behind me while I lift, push and pull, while I grunt, while I cry (twice so far) and groan. The first time we met, he asked me what I liked and what I didn’t like. He knows I hate that my face goes red, so we train before the gym has opened to the public. He knows I hate looking at myself in the mirror, but he still makes me do it, as it should prevent me falling over. #notlikely
After 2 months, I can now jab, cross, uppercut and hook. I’m on my way to becoming a lean mean fighting machine and I can feel the tiny little punch muscles poking through my bingo wings. I couldn’t really care less about how this is affecting me physically, although I do enjoy feeling stronger. Mostly, I feel happy.
Happy that there is a man on earth who can boss me about for good reason. Happy that I have found something in my life that is just for me. Happy that I can stand up straight. Happy that I punch like a girl. Happy that I run like a girl. Happy that with each flying fist, a little piece of the sadness, the anger or the fear leaves me and lands on the bag.
Happy.
Comments