After nearly five years of flirting, sweating and a whole lot of grunting, I’ve realised we’re just not good for each other me and you.
Gym, oh gym,
you do not make me slim.
You make me bored and annoyed like the One Show and doing accounts.
I’ve tried it all; weights, cardio thingy, jumpy-uppy-downy class, tums, bums and thumbs, even that wibbly-wobbly power plate thing that makes your fillings fall out. (Weirdly, that doesn’t seem to happen to that older lady who just sits on the plate smiling for HOURS). Zumba, Zimba and also Zamba, I loathe it all. Even the smell of you Gym; cheese, vinegar and despair all mixed into one just makes me want to gag up a kidney.
I’m sorry, but it’s over. I just don’t love you.
You want to know why I’m leaving? Well, I’ll tell you. The final straw was yesterday when I was in the shower and an actual turd floated past me in the communal drainage from the next door cubical like something from the the conveyor belt on Bruce Forsyth’s Generation Game. “Some personalized luggage….a cuddly toy…a child’s poo please Bruce.”
I liked your pool though. It was nice to have more than 1 square foot to swim in London that didn’t involve accidentally swallowing floaty plasters or the risk of TB. But the last time I swam, I was chatted up by an 82-year-old man who left his teeth on the pool side before wading off to his aqua aerobics class. I just felt so CHEAP.
You promised me ‘fitness’ and ‘well-being’ and instead I have a belly full of shattered dreams (and undigested cakes) achy knees and an appreciation for the terrible stenographer at Sky TV whose hilarious misspellings have kept me sane while I’ve worked up a tidal wave of gusset sweat on the Cross Trainer (which actually does make me cross, really narked) for FIVE, LONG, PUNGENT, DISAPPOINTING years.
SO, I am cancelling my (misunder)Standing Order even though you will try to stop me by bringing out the Manager who is hotter than a young Denzil Washington crossed with Ryan Gosling who will ply me with offers of a 1 hour FREE session with a personal trainer called Gareth, a FREE guest pass or a FREE fluorescent cocktail at one of your ‘socials.’ I wont be taken in (yes, I know it worked the other 5 times I tried to leave, BUT IT WON’T THIS TIME).
Oh damn you Gym with your fluffy towels, sauna and steam. Sod you with your whooping, smiley, bouncy, erect-nippled staff who have clearly NEVER HAD KIDS. IT’S OVER!
OK… the truth is, I’ve met someone new. I haven’t actually been out with it yet, or spoken to it, but I have been admiring it from afar and stalking its Facebook page. I’m not even sure if we’ll get on but it looks and more importantly SMELLS amazing. Really amaaaazing. There’s lots of chanting and there are tattooed teachers from New Yoik who look like they could crush a Volvo with their gluteus maximii. What more could an unfit girl want? Look out Jivamukti, here I come.
I’m sorry Gym. It’s not you, it’s me.
Actually no, it IS you. No one REALLY likes you.
It’s been awful,