The Perils of Fitness.

I have just paid a sum of five English pounds to get shouted out by a Columbian gentleman who goes by the name of ‘Nad’, along with a room full of sweaty women a decade my senior. The following hour involves thrusting, embarrassment, and the (failed) attempt of a group of British women to subside to the Latin rhythm without cringing. Alas, Nad was not the ringleader of a local orgy, but the local Zumba instructor.

I knew it was a bloody mistake as soon as I walked in the door- to see that the more experienced looking women at the front were wearing a spandex ensemble and had brought towels with them. Actual towels. Who sweats that much they need a towel? At the other end of the spectrum there were two women at the back who left half way through the class to go and ‘have a fag’. God Bless.

Varying somewhere between these two extremes, I knew that the five pounds would have been better spent on a cup of tea and fucking massive slab of cake. But the Hell was not over when ‘Nad’ withdrew from the room (saucy), oh, no, this was merely the catalyst for the next awkward part: changing room Politics.

 Now, I don’t know why this is, but older women are inclined to flash everything, with the attitude ‘Once you’ve had a baby, you don’t care who sees it.’ Lord. They also will discuss issues of a ‘sexual’ nature to a graphic extent e.g. ‘Oh, it was really great, he was so lovely and let me put my legs behind his ears with no trouble at all.’ In this instance it turned out she was talking about her having ridden an elephant on holiday, but my point still stands.

Thus, since then I have ventured to find a form of exercise which doesn’t leave me needing therapy. So far, I have toured a gym with a scary man who looked like he lives on protein shakes and adrenaline, and who could probably wrestle a lion with his bare hands.

The guy was so fit he boasted that he could jog to the gym (unnecessary) in about five minutes from his flat quite a way away.

It takes me five minutes to get the bloody trousers on. Needless to say, I didn’t sign up.

Cake time.