My road to the gym is paved with good intentions, and we all know where that leads.
Having said that I did manage to drag myself there earlier today. I spent about half an hour on the resistance machines (is that what they’re called, because it makes me feel like I’m spearheading a robot revolution?), followed by half an hour on the elliptical.
It was hard work and as long as I remembered to suck in my stomach before looking in the mirror I felt quite pleased with myself.
While I slogged away there were a bunch of older (well, older than me) ladies pottering around in a nice gentle aerobics class. They seemed to be having a pleasant time and I certainly enjoyed the addition of their soundtrack to my own workout.
Coincidentally their class ended at the same time as I finished and together we walked out of the gym where we sat and changed our shoes in the leisure centre’s main change area.
At that point I realized that I had walked out, red in the face and sweaty, in the company of a bunch of much older women who hadn’t even smudged their make-up. “They’re not with me,” I wanted to scream, “I worked really hard!”
When I go to the gym I want recognition and admiration, not a bunch of cheerful, relaxed seniors making me look like a pansy.