It’s Life, Gym, But Not as We Know it

Some might call it a mid-life crisis.

Now, considering that I have just fallen face first into my forties… some could be forgiven for calling it that.

I have taken my life into my own hands and joined a gym.

And just so’s I don’t pike out on my promise to get back into some semblance of the shape I was in in my 20s and 30s, I made it a 12 month membership, minimum. Yay me.

Now all I have to do, is go!

The great thing about this gym is that it promises plenty of space to work out in peace, without competing for mirror space with the narcissists in the room, and without being stuck in front of a window where anyone passing by gets a good look at your…technique, so to speak. It also offers a kids class free for members’ children. That’s a bonus, as my kids and I can use each other as motivation to get moving at least once a week.

There’s also a sauna, a coffee shop, child care, and massage rooms. There’s even talk of a potential pool onsite, in case one needs any more enticement.

Recently, there was an Open Day to show off their wares. It appeared the world and his wife went in to check it out.

There were gym staff cavorting about dressed like superheroes (with requisite underwear on the outside), there were kids hanging off the boxing bags, couples having quiet cuppas while considering cutting carbs, plus the offer of trial mini massage.

Since it was free, I thought I’d line up for one too.

So that was how I came to find myself perched in a position a contortionist or exotic dancer could be proud of, on this funny contraption loosely based on a chair- with my face poking into an alleged breathing hole cut into said chair, all while kinda falling forward onto my knees. While I was there, I thought I may as well take advantage of the position and offer up a quick prayer that I would in fact be able to get up again once it was over.

After a few initial swipes of the shoulders the female masseuse realized just what a challenge my muscles presented and was working up a sweat of her own trying to loosen things up. Any attempts at polite conversation gave way to her doing a close rendition of Monica Seles in full form with little grunts coming over my shoulder as she really got stuck into my Trapezius. Didn’t take too long before she decided the 5 minute mini massage was not going to cut it with me, and I was enthusiastically offered a discount on a full hour-long session.

Seems my impromptu prayers were answered at least, and I was able to extract myself from the massage chair without too much embarrassment, and after saving Spiderman from my offspring it was back to reality and we headed on home.

After all that exertion we felt fully justified in doing so via the closest fast food factory, which just happens to be right alongside the gym in question.

Yes like doctors offering lollies at the end of an appointment to keep their dentistry friends in business, it seems that the Colonel is in cahoots with the consortium that owns the fitness centre and keeps the clients coming with 11 secret herbs and spices.

*sighs*

Just as well I’ve got 12 months to work it off…

Jx
©2010