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Posts tagged ‘gym’

Accessorised with my own personal rainbow

My regular attendance at the gym has more to do with getting my hit of Melody TV than keeping fit. Over the last two months I realized that the same collection of music vids were on constant replay and I was starting to wonder whether Arabic stars ever released any new songs. I’d thought the glorious charm of Haifaa Wahby’s squirming bosoms would never wear off, but I have to admit even they were getting a bit droopy.

I am delighted to report that a fresh crop of Arabic songs is now doing the rounds. My current favourite has our heroine skipping through the forest, dressed for the elements in a red cape, girlie dress with flounces, pig tails, bobby socks and t-bar shoes. Here she comes swinging her basket, the veritable essence of innocence were it not for the vast chasm of cleavage exploding out her bodice. That, and the positively filthy way the girl has of looking at a camera.

All of a sudden she skips behind a tree and – argh! – it’s Mr Wolf or, more specifically, a man in a gorilla suit. And Mr Wolf is WEARING A CODPIECE. This immodest defense of Mr Wolf’s modesty is bright red and looks suspiciously like PVC. It is absolutely precious. The first time I saw it, I fell off the treadmill laughing.

There is something fundamentally and deeply disturbing about these videos. Are they more or less disturbing than Western music videos featuring malnourished prepubescent American girls waving their malnourished ribs around and straddling greased up dancers? Well, I’m not sure . . . but at least with Western videos the sexuality is out there quivering at the camera, rather than dressed up as innocent teenage entertainment. Mr Wolf in a shiny red codpiece – I ask you.

When I’m not high on Melody TV, I pass the time by people-watching between press ups. According to Shaw’s Theory #9, you can tell an awful lot about someone from the way they work out.

For example, the man giving it loads on the cross trainer such that smoke is coming out the back: he has an official Porsche bomber jacket; a pedigree Labrador called ‘Hercules’; organizes his socks by colour code; and spends more time blow drying his hair than his girlfriend(s). He uses multiple exclamation points in his emails!!!!! He is a terrible lover. Deep down he knows he has no imagination or longevity (NB unable to conclusively verify this fact) and tries to make up for his carnal deficiencies by flashing the cash and doing enough lunges to enable him to store small change between his buttocks.

The woman in baggy t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms displaying lackluster performance on the bicycle? She was aghast to find three grey hairs this morning and a liver spot which on closer inspection turned out to be a freckle; she is considering breast enhancement surgery; she cries when watching Oprah; she has a guilty secret (romance novels); her husband only ever does the dishes in order to flirt with the maid. She eats dark chocolate in 500g portions and once tried yoga but was self conscious about her lycra clad thighs. She takes charge of her life dammit! by going to the gym every morning and spending 20 minutes cycling nowhere (25 on a good day).

The well toned young man on the bench: it is clear from the way he points his toes when doing cross-overs that he is gay and contemplating a fabulous life from the darkest recesses of the closet. The brisk way he exercises indicates that he is fond of his mum and cats; he dates beautiful women and treats them like a queen; he once posted a personal add describing himself as having ‘great s.o.h.’; he is not aware that he points his toes when doing cross-overs but would vehemently deny it. His favourite film of all time is ‘Dirty Dancing’ – he always thought Baby had a certain indefinable quality (most people would call it Patrick Swayze).

I have heard that in America many people treat the gym as a potential pick-up joint. Well, I have no idea how that works, being only marginally less attractive ten minutes into a workout than I am when twisted drunk. I tend to do things more by multiples than halves, so it’s never long before my face is a furnace and my top ringed with damp. I positively EXPLODE sweat to the extent that I am accessorized with my own personal rainbow. And sometimes I grunt when I do bicep curls. I try not to: I know how unladylike it is. [When we lived in Karama, there was a guy who used to come down to the gym and do sit-ups, each one accompanied by a fart. I think he used gas as a form of propulsion. He thought I couldn’t hear him due to being plugged into my mp3 player. I could. The trauma.]

Of course, there has to be an upside to all this gym attendance, apart from the obvious (Melody TV, fellow exercisers, rainbows) (although in themselves, those are compelling incentives). Well, there is another advantage. If you look at my left upper arm, just above the elbow and below the third freckle, there is A Muscle.

I tried to photograph it as evidence, but I think the light conditions were sub-optimal

Pull my head

Having guests has highlighted just how disgracefully – well, pedantic is possibly the kindest word – I am. You might describe me otherwise (freakishly obsessive/compulsive). I know that this is more a reflection on me than on our houseguests, and have trained myself never to utter the following:-

 

“You missed a crumb.”

 

“Please can you line up the toaster in parallel with the sink?”

 

“Does that look like the cupboard for peanuts? I thought not.”

 

However, I did make an exception when I caught Raff wiping his gob on the tea towel, when I shrieked: “Are you KIDDING me?” I was unable to say any more, because I suffered a weak spell and had to sit down.

 

Now Raff makes sure I’m not around before snogging the tea towels.

 

Raff and Carol are both enthusiastic gym attendees – or semi-enthusiastic at least. Me, I’m still exercising every second day.  For a period of a week I had to skip the gym due to a dishwasher unloading incident; I was worried I’d slipped my disk again so took myself off to the osteo who put me on Brufen for a couple of days. I love going to the osteo; he likes to pull on my head – actually, both of us like it, him more because I pay US$ 70 for the experience. I’m worried that I am developing a head pulling fetish – I could quite happily have him tug on my ears for the entire hour. AND I can get BUPA to pay for the thrill, which is even more exciting.

 

In retrospect, the break from the gym was necessary to cure me of an unhealthy Melody TV addiction. But now I’m back bigger and better than before

Arse-shaped imprint

The writing is going well, as evidenced by the arse-shaped imprint in our extremely expensive leather sofa. Even though I expect the imprint to shrink with more cross training at Level 12, I’m considering a rotating seating plan

Negative paraging

Now that I am regularly going to the gym, I’ve put on two kilos. I’d like someone to please explain that particular injustice to me – and don’t say muscle weighs more than flab because I’m hardly bursting with biceps and triceps. This is surely conclusive proof that there is no God.
 
Yesterday I went to the health club to work up a sweat and pretend I know how to use the weights, and there was a skinny cow on the next cross-trainer huffing up a storm. She was really going for it – think ‘Twist and Shout’ by the Beatles on fast-forward. Her legs were a blur.
 
I was a bit intimidated; she kept on toweling herself down, like: “See how hard I’m Working Out – I’m THIS SWEATY!” and demonstrating by flicking it around the place. But I wasn’t about to be psyched out by a woman who could arm-wrestle me into a coma, because I’m made of sterner stuff. So I clambered onto the other cross trainer and worked up to ‘Killing Me Softly’ by Roberta Flack.
 
Now I was trying to ignore this malnourished slapper because I was at 75% maximum heart rate which is where I want to be and I’m quite happy with that, I don’t have to get to 150% maximum heart palpitation to feel like I’m exercising. But she was shooting me disparaging looks from the depths of her towel, and I was starting to feel depressed. As if all that’s not bad enough, her compact lycra clad arse twinkling away was taunting me.
 
BUT THEN I throw a glance at her control panel – and she’s on level 1. LEVEL 1! So if anyone was going to be indulging in negative paraging, it should have been me.
 
So I threw a few sneery looks in her direction, along with some sweat (two can play at that game), and comforted myself with the knowledge that in an arse-off, my bottom would totally annihilate hers.
 
It’s cut throat at the gymnasium

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