I Walk, or Occasionally Jog, the Line

I have a confession to make. It is not a confession I ever thought I would make. Certainly not when I was being picked last for games throughout the entirety of my schooldays. Nor when I was paying to be a member of a gym for years at a time and only going once a month. Not even when I used to 'quite like' doing the Jane Fonda workout in the 80s. My confession is this:

I have turned into the kind of person who goes to the gym to make myself feel better.

Do you hear that sound? It's a kind of creaking, cracking sound that might be familiar from December of last year. It is the sound of something freezing over - in this case, it is the sound of hell freezing over.

Let me explain how I came to this conclusion. Yesterday evening, I was having a bit of a wobble. I was feeling January-ish (it's cold, it's dark, there's nothing much to look forward to); I'd had a bit of a tetchy conversation with my boss earlier in the day; I was, as ever, disappointed by the fact that I still hadn't won the Lottery on Saturday and thus couldn't give up work entirely. My other work colleagues seemed a bit strung out and down too. I suddenly really really missed all my friends. Usually, after a mildly trying day, I would've texted or emailed a couple of people and suggested a trip to the pub for a whinge over a bottle of wine, or a spontaenous visit to the cinema and then we'd have formulated a plan to do something fun and cheering in the next couple of weeks as well.


But up here, I haven't yet managed to accumulate a gaggle of friends who can be called upon at short notice to be, essentially, moaned at for an hour, whilst I pull myself out of a minor Slough of Despond. So instead of going home to watch TV and eat chocolate, I forced myself to go to the gym. I got changed, went to the loo, and had a bit of a cry whilst I was in there. Yeah, it was one of those days - all got a bit much, frankly. The internal conversation ran as follows:
Self-pitying Me: 'WHY did I decide to move to the opposite end of the country, removing myself entirely from all my family and friends?'
Rational Me: 'Because it seemed like a good idea to shake yourself out of all sorts of ruts'
SP Me: '[Sob] They weren't such bad ruts, were they?'
R Me: 'Um, well, no, not in the grand scheme of things. But aren't you, you know, kind of happy in general now? You know, with the lovely flat, and less stress at work, and not having to go on the Tube every day and worry about people blowing you up - stuff like that?'
SP Me: 'Well, yes, there is all that, but I miss going to the pub and having lots of people to suggest doing things with and the fact that I don't have to explain anything to my old friends, they just know and I am REALLY BORED OF WATCHING SHIT TELLY'
R Me: 'I don't think this is getting you anywhere fast. Dry your eyes, pet, and let's just go and flail about on a treadmill for a bit. You can lie when it asks you how old you are, if that'll make you feel better. Sweating and feeling tired will at least take your mind off all this while you're doing it'
SP Me: 'OK. Yes, you're right. I can always phone someone afterwards if I still feel crap'
R Me: 'Well done. Now, just hope that you don't bump into Cheerful James, or anyone else that you know, and have to confess that you're having a bit of a ladymoment'


I was filling up my water bottle when naturally, Cheerful James popped up at my shoulder, greeting me, bien sur, cheerfully, and then dragging me off to be introduced to someone. GAAH. Of course he's going to introduce me to someone when I have just been crying in the loo. He's been saying he wants me to have a session with a mate of his who is a 'biomechanics specialist' who will hopefully sort out my knackered left shoulder and my dodgy posture. And there he is. Man Mountain Gary, who is eleventy foot tall, must surely at some stage have been in the Marines, and looks as though he could crush me like a bug. He is also insanely good looking. I remind you once more, I am fresh from having a cry in the loos. I try to avoid looking at him, as he says that he'll email me to arrange an appointment. Having a red-eyed and now probably red-faced girl staring at you is probably less than ideal for insanely good looking man mountains. It is also cripplingly embarrassing when you are the red-eyed, red-faced girl in question. 'I hope he just assumes I'm having problems with the contact lenses that I don't actually wear', I thought, as I dashed off in search of a treadmill.


So, I assumed I'd force myself through twenty minutes or so of exercise, and then go home to carry on feeling miserable. But, dear reader, I managed a full hour of machines, weights and the like, and by the time I got home, I felt absolutely fine. Fine, I tell you! Albeit still hell bent on eating a large bowl of pasta with pesto and indulging in both Heat and that mad gypsy wedding programme on Channel 4. But yes, going to the gym, instead of being a horrible chore that I had to drag myself through had actually made me feel better.


When I moved here 6 months ago, one of the questions I was asked on my first night was whether I did any sport (by a very hearty bunch of people who were friends of the girl I was staying with). They'd just spent half an hour discussing whether or not one of them should buy a new bike, and if so, what sort of bike they should buy. I thought I was going to gnaw my own arm off with boredom. I said that my interests were largely sedentary and they all gazed at me, thoroughly perplexed. 'Why would you not want to play golf/tennis/squash and go running/cycling/kayaking during any available free moment?' I could feel them thinking. 'Because that sounds like horrible, hard work and I'd rather read a book or watch telly', I mentally replied.


Ironic, then, that I appear to have morphed into the kind of person who could give Davina McCall a run for her money in the gym-going stakes. If I manage to carry on for another 6 months, can I also have Davina's insanely shiny hair and presenting gig on The Biggest Loser? Because if there's no monetary value attached to this metamorphosis from sofa slug to Fully Bionic Human Being, then I've just crossed that invisible line. The one that marked me out as 'one of us' and has turned me into 'one of them' - the freaks who actually enjoy going to the gym and feel weird if they don't go for a couple of days. Which brings me perilously close to the danger zone in which I will suddenly wake up one day and think that taking up golf 'might be fun'.