Gym -vs- Junk Food

Believe it or not, I used to be known as a skinny person.

Reader, get your jaw OFF the floor. It’s true. But alas, life got in the way. So did two articulated lorries full of takeaway food and a serious dedication to sitting.

So, I bit the bullet and joined a gym yesterday.

Now I have a complex. Not to mention 36 extra insecurities.

Upon entering, I was greeted by a very pretty, slim, reception girl. Her colleague, a muscle-bound Cork lad with a t-shirt painted onto him, was talking about protein shakes to Arnold Schwartzenegger’s brother.

I asked could I look around. First visual: a 65+ year old man on a weights machine, looking AND SOUNDING like he was performing his own enema.

Second visual: 14 eastern European men with bald heads, v-necks and hot pants, all checking themselves out in the mirrors as they lifted impossibly heavy weights. See below. Except imagine they are severely unattractive and on dangerous levels of steroids.

Things can ONLY get better. Not a woman in sight since Skinny McSlim-Arse on reception.

I ventured upstairs to the cardio/free weights area, hoping for some slightly flabby company. What I got was yet another bloke, attempting what looked like a yoga pose. Could have been misconstrued as a sexual come-on, however. I launched myself onto a treadmill like it was producing free pizza.

It wasn’t, by the way. Gyms frown upon free pizza, I’ve discovered.

Once I was finished looking around, it was time for my assessment.

YIPPEE, I thought, a girl is coming towards me. So now I don’t have to pretend to have been the victim of a ‘feeder’ or anything. And I don’t have to suck in! Result!

No. If Barbie had a younger, hotter, GYMNAST sister, this chick was her. She was petite, blonde, toned to perfection and looked as though she’d bate ya if you hit on her, in the cutest way possible. I was a MONSTER next to her.

She proceeded to ask me about my diet. Here’s where the white lies started. The operative word being ‘white’.

“And what kind of bread would you have with your beans on toast?”

“Well it varies, sometimes white, sometimes brown…..” LIES. Its ALWAYS white. If you know me at all, you’ll know of my deep love of complex carbs.

She asked me would I have a small, medium or large dinner.

“Ehhh… probably medium?” LIES. It’s ALWAYS large. They sent a memo out to McDonalds restaurants worldwide alerting them to this so I’d never have to confirm it when ordering.

Like, if she wanted me to answer “Ooh, I only eat lettuce and I take fibre supplements and I jog for 16kms a day” she’d be swiftly out of a job, am I right?!

So THAT'S what I've been doing wrong....

ANYWAY. Lessons learned from the Assessment:

1. I don’t like calipers, particularly when they are squeezing my rolls of fat.

2. I eat too much. White bread is the enemy. White bread in a gym is what Voldemort is in a Harry Potter book. He who shall not be named/eaten.

3. It will take a lot of hard work to become fit and slim again.

4. Weighing yourself in front of a skinny person will make you suicidal.

So on I went to have a go on a treadmill for a while. I put something upbeat on my iPod and started up. I set the incline to level 1 (I didn’t want to overdo it, PLUS I don’t live in San Francisco) and set the pace at 4.4km/h.

I figured this was a good starting pace. In my old gym in DCU I walked at 6.6km/h and jogged at 9.9km/h (yes I have a ‘thing’ about doubling numbers when I can….) so I figured 4.4 would be a cakewalk. How wrong I was.

First off, THIS is what I looked like.

I blazed along for what felt like 15 mins. I looked down and saw the clock tip over to the 3rd minute. WHAAAAAT?!?! Immediately, I started seeing stars and my ankles started to give way.

I pressed pause on the treadmill. My lungs were on fire. My heart was three beats away from going out on strike. And my legs felt like someone had yanked out all the bone and muscle when I wasn’t looking.

I took a few seconds to compose myself and realised I wasn’t going to get skinny and fit without pushing myself, so I soldiered on for the full 15 minutes. In my haste, I forgot to put my iPod back on, but it turned out to be a good thing.

The gym was blaring out DMX, Eminem and D12, which as it turns out is EXCELLENT workout music. Once I drowned out the sounds of the Eastern Europe Steroid convention downstairs, I was hardcore-rapping my way to fitness.

While on the cross-trainer (my next port of call) I got lost in thoughts about what would make this gym a more inviting place. Here is the list:

1. If they offered liposuction for free during your first consultation.

2. If they provided a chef to concoct all the healthy meals they recommend you eat

3. If Beyoncé went there.

4. If there were pictures of me in a bikini plastered on all the walls. I’d be horrified and likely blinded, but I’d never leave the place.

5. If the mirrors only reflected my hands (my favourite body part)

6. If they handed you a 3-in-1 on the way out.

The likelyhood is that none of these improvements will ever be made to the gym. But a girl can dream.

I have my first personal training sesh on Friday with Barbie’s hot little sister. I hope she keeps the ‘fat bitch’ insults to a minimum.

Just so we’re clear, here is what I WANT to look like:

And HERE is what’s stopping me getting there:

*drifts off into junk food related fantasy…*

Tags: Beyonce, d12, DMX, eminem, exercise, fitness, food, gangsta rap, gym, health, joining the gym, torture, treadmills