Last breath

I am a very private person.

For all that know me, you probably think I’m lying. For all that don’t know me, just keep reading. Back to those who do know me, if you think back to all our conversations, as no doubt there have been many since I possess the ability to talk the hind legs of anything, you will note that I am hot air, and you know little about me, ME. Other than deciding to compare myself to a hairdryer, I’ll give you an insight into Me and tell you that I have recently discovered that I participate in S and M. Do not be mistaken, I did not say M and M’s – though given half a chance I will put away large quantities of them. Nor, for you British folk, did I say M and S as Spain had a spat with them and kicked them out the country. No, I said S and M – as in sadomasochism. So, to clarify, because I know you’re all thinking: good god the cocktail of pills she’s currently on is clearly not working…I mean I willingly inflict pain and sometimes enjoy it and I (sometimes) willingly receive it. Both done by me, to me.

And, before you pick up the phone and dial Animal Protection Services, or worse, my mother, I’ll inform you, that I’m talking about going to the gym. Yes, you dirty minded lot. I am talking about The Gym.

I throw myself out of bed and then the house and then the car and make myself go to the gym an unhealthy amount of times a week. Unhealthy when considering my mental state, as thunder thighs are still awaiting the reaping of toned rewards. To the gym we trundle, and did I mention that I go to my granny’s gym? And that my granny accepts nothing less than the best? So we go to a gym where the tips of your trainers are kissed every morning. This means it is full of Blackberries doing weights and an inordinate amount of fake boobs on step machines or quite simply just fannying about in search of husband no. 6. I on the other hand am neither in search of husband no. 6 or 1 for that matter, (he will arrive around the age of 25), nor am I doing weights with my Blackberry glued to my ear – (it arrives next week). I have gradually weaned myself off a mascara and earring clad gym outfit. First it was the earrings and then the mascara.

I go the gym in a t-shirt I could either sleep or work out in and I go blinking my eyelashless eyes. Also, did I mention that I do not go bright red like the rest of humans at the gym, but go pale verging on yellow, thus making my eye bags look that little bit more blue-come-purple? No? Well I do. I look like a recovering vampire, on a good day. And so I find myself willing my legs to keep running/cycling/crosstrainer machining, lying to myself every 5 minutes…just 5 more to go…just 5 more to go…45 minutes later I step off cursing myself. And on one particular day this week I threw myself out of bed out of the house and then out of the car and went for a cycle and then ‘rewarded’ myself with a pilates class. Please note ‘rewarded’, pilates is not for the faint of heart – there are 80 year olds doing the plank when all I’m thinking is I’d rather be walking it. The class that day, was mainly made up of women, two men did show up but they had clearly been dropped off by their wives thinking it a Husband Crèche. All women there are trying to tone/hide/inhale/beat into submission some bump, lump or extra and so we all voluntarily sink to the floor to do some abs. Pilates abs are the same as normal ones but with more “And inhaaaale, and exhaaaaale”. Side crunch, side crunch and I realized someone was really exhaling with all her might. Like, silence and then “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”, no joke. I looked for the breathing, found it linked to a grey haired, yellow skinned woman and kept watching her. After having stared really indiscreetly at her continuously exhaling in such a manner I decided that what she was doing was not abdominal exhalations, but in fact, practicing her last breath. I could imagine her lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling and preparing to release her last breath into the face of whomever would be with her at her death. I couldn’t handle it and started to laugh. Death is not funny, but she was.

I continued to laugh as the class drew to an end and continued to laugh as I made my way down the stairs on wobbly legs to the changing rooms. I realized as I sat down that laughing hurt, as did walking and as did sitting. Good god, I was in pain all over. But it’s a good kinda pain, you know? It hurts and you think “OW!! Son of a-” but then, actually, maybe as it hurts you feel the fat toning? No? Well it gets me through my day, so gym pain is good. And yes, I will continue to go and be in pain and wake up and have issues throwing myself out of bed due to the pain. But dammit, one day, I feel sure, and I must believe that one day not too far away, my gym membership will run out. Till then, GYM and S&M go hand in hand.