gym will fix it

So, I joined the gym the other week. It's costing me, um, my mum, quite a bit. Um, a lot. Joint membership at, um, too much per month. We figure it's worth our while if we use it enough to get our money back. On that logic, I'd like to say that I, at least, am getting my money's worth. Um, my mum's money's worth.

Mum hasn't been once since we joined. I've been twice. Quite appalling by anyone's standards I know. Interestingly, the big battle here is not against my incredible self-consciousness and, believe me, it should be (safe to say, when God designed me, sports clothes and gym equipment, he was giving his renowned sense of humour a good ol' airing). Even squeezing into my tankini (yep, I called it a tankini, that's right) wasn't as embarassing as I thought it would be.

I was actually quite pleased to find that I'm a better swimmer than I thought. I was appalling as a child. As much as I wanted to be a water baby, I just wasn't. Arm bands and floats and a manic phobia of not having my feet on solid ground put paid to that dream. Then, when I was 13, I went to Portugal for two weeks with my friend Sarah and, through boredom more than anything else, I finally became a competent swimmer. Sadly, something in my head still equates swimming to almost drowning. Think it's gonna take a few more lengths to shake that one off.

Anyway, I've kind of resigned myself to the fact that I am never gonna be one of those whippet thin gym babes, you know the kind with the skin tight trousers and the Croydon facelift ponytails, that scary look of grim determination and the notable lack of any kind of femininity... screw that. Marilyn Monroe was a size 16 and who the hell am I to argue with that? All I'm after is to be able to climb stairs without seeing stars and who cares if I look ridiculous on the way.

Nuhuh. It's really finding the time that's putting me off. They said three times a week should do the trick. Uhuh. Is that before or after I learn to cook, write a book and pass my A-levels? Here we go again, my usual "not enough hours in the day" tirade. All I want is some time to myself, right? Some 'me' time, or 'Fi' time, if you will. Hah. A little bit of my day when absolutely no one can tell me what to do or ask me to be entirely different. A little part of my life that I have complete control over, yeah?

Well, as it happens, the problem has solved itself, again. From henceforth, let gym time be 'me' time - after all, there ain't nobody crazy enough to bother me when I look like I do on that infernal rowing machine. You know how Lee Evans sweats on stage? You remember that Star Wars film with Jabba the Hut when he gets all angry? You know how dogs get real mad and bark at you when you interrupt their game of fetch? Yeah, you know what I mean.