Friday, 10 July 2015

Fatty, fatty boombah!!!!!

When I was young, I could pretty much eat whatever I wanted, but since entering my 30s, I seem to be putting on kilos in my sleep.  And I know it's only going to get worse.

I was having visions of myself, lying on the couch at home eating Pringles while watching The Biggest Loser, and then being lifted out of my house by a crane, live on Jerry Springer.  I even had a recurring nightmare in which "A Current Affair" was doing one of those hard hitting reports into dodgy diets and when they cut to the slo-mo stock footage of all the big beach bums bursting out of their bikinis, I recognised my own bum!

OK, the first thing I did was join a gym. 

Now before I continue, I've got to say, I've never been a gym junkie which is a weird term now that I think about it.  It conjures images of people standing outside the Fitness First gym saying "hey fatty .... have you got 50 cents. I need a quick walk on the treadmill?" In fact the only time I've attempted a gym workout, I woke up the next day so sore that even my eyelashes hurt.  Plus it always seemed stupid to pick up heavy things, when if there's something heavy at my house that needs picking up, I pay someone else to do it.

So it was with some trepidation, that I went to my first assessment session.  Walking through the door of the amazing brand new gym. I was pulled aside and introduced to the chiseled Adonis who was going to show me around.  It didn't help my nerves that he looked m up and down and said "Hello, my name is Attila".

Attila? Attila?? Attila???

To cut a long story short, as it was, Attila turned out to be an awesome bloke.  He was a former triathlete who tried to design a gym that wasn't just exercise equipment, but it included heaps of fun stuff like rock climbing and boxing and there was even a DJ, although I did wonder if it was a good gig. "Hey dude, where are you playing on the weekend? Playing at the Big Day Out?"  "Nah, love. I'm on the Wheels of Steel down at the gym."   Well, I guess in both places there are plenty of sweaty people drinking bottled water.

But i digress.

There were two of us newbies - the other being another chiseled Adonis who really didn't look like he needed any exercise.  I filled in my forms. Just doing the paperwork made  me break out into a mild sweat, and then it was time to do some real exercise (and there was I thinking that's what the paperwork was)!

It seemed that the first item on the agenda was - wait for it - pulling a car using a rope. Huh? At least I think that was one of the exercises. Either that or Attila needed a jumpstart and he was taking the piss.  I was ready to collapse in fright when I realised he had this planned for my newbie male friend.  Phew!!!

From there we moved onto push-ups.  Attila had to see how many we could do it a minute.  A minute??????  Ok, I admit, I didn't make the entire minute without stopping.  Neither did my newbie friend, Jason.  Should this be an indication of his performance in the bedroom. 

Then there were sit-ups, bench presses, holding the medicine ball above my head while stepping through tyres ((I'm sure this one is going to come in handy next time I need to hold something heavy above my head, while I step through tyres).

Next I got to swing on the monkey bars. (I'm not sure  if this was one of the exercises or just recess).  After that came a great one where Attila made me sprint up a flight of stairs but take the escalator back down.  (The perfect time to sneak in a quick smoke, I thought).

Finally it was time to jump into the boxing ring so Attila could see how many punches we could throw in a minute.  To be honest, by this stage, my arms were trembling so much, I struggled to put the gloves on in a minute, but luckily my manager was Don King and he had paid off the judges, so I won by a nose.

At last, I was done. Sweaty, sore, stretched an broken, I resolved then and there to come back. But not for at least 12 months when my body had stopped hurting.

The only other time I'd been in that much pain, was when I went on a skiing holiday with some friends.  Growing up in sunny Melbourne, my family didn't do much skiing, so when a couple of friends suggested we go to the snow for a week, I leapt at the opportunity.  Little did I know it would be the last time I would be capable of jumping or even walking, for the next month.

You see, I didn't realise that some people see skiing as a wonderful way to spend a couple of weeks, I didn't.

While my friends had a really good time, I spent so much time face down in ice and when I wasn't face down, I was bum up. I think they made a mistake by attaching the skis to the bottom of my boots. They should have just strapped them on to my bottom, seeing as that was the part of my body that made the most contact with the snow.

I also ended with my ankles behind my ears so often, it looked less like I was skiing and more like I was auditioning positions for a new Kama Sutra.  I spent so much time doing the splits, even Miley Cyrus would have thought I looked a little trashy.

Foolishly, I thought the trip might be an opportunity for romance, but the only body my legs wrapped themselves around was my own (plus at the end of a day on the slopes, my body was so bruised and broken, that the only person I wanted touching me was a licensed medical professional or possibly, a coroner).

All jokes aside, I returned from that trip convinced that skiing was invented by the same person who came up with Candy Crush, colonoscopies, and the Crazy Frog ringtone.  It's entertainment for masochists while their dungeons are being cleaned during Spring. 

By the way, my skis contained secret magnets at the end.  Try as I may to keep them straight, they would go in the complete opposite direction. Elton John has more chance of going straight than I did.

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