Having survived the vicissitudes of Grahamstown driving lessons, I recently began to feel that journalistic itch to go and discover something new, something the people need to know about, something that would stop blog readers, sprain their jaw-muscles, and send their eyes rolling backwards and forth in their sockets.
So I signed up to the Rhodes gym.
This had nothing or only very little to do with the fact that I wanted to get fit, and possibly simultaneously raise my blog stats.
So, after a long session of meditation, chanting, eating cake etc, I presented myself at the gym. To sign up. Not touch the machines, gerl, one step at a time!
The one and only person capable of signing me up was unavailable, so I had to go home, chant some more, and then return. This time he was there but on his way out saying something like IhaveamillionresponsibilitiesandIdontcareifyou’vebeeneatingyourweightincakesI’mbuuuusy!
but I persisted
It was like hunting down Al Queda.
But with more icing.
After a lot of brave fighting whining, I finally got what I wanted. The Holy Stickers of Gym Subscription. For not just Aerobics, but also Weights.
Damn straight, bitchez. I’ll be lifting weights and pushing weights and whatever the fuck else I can do with weights! In your face! In my pants!
The Treadmill seemed a better option to start on, however.
I left the library early last night to go home and prepare.
I had to find an outfit, good shoes, fix my hair, prepare a playlist, a juice bottle and a towel.
Then, once I’d checked myself out through the Jock lens and was confident that I looked like I eat salads all the time, was obsessed with kilojules calories and other such stuff, I set out.
From the moment I got out of the car to the moment I got back into it, I had a pout. It wasn’t a dumb bimbo pout though, no, it was more a focused, diligent, I will make it to the top of this incline pout. I am a sexy gym bunny pout. Afterwards I will go home and read Eco-feminist poetry relating to the American post-war consciousness, but right now, I am a sexy gym bunny, and THIS, bitchez, is my pout.
I got through the front door, walked down the dimly lit corridor which smells like toe,and arrived at the turntable entrance of the main gym area. Nonchalantly, I pulled out my student card and swiped it at the sensor. Nonchalantly, I rammed myself into the turntable which wouldn’t budge. My pout buckled slightly as I asked a girl on the other side for help. She nonchalantly indicated the other turntable. I swiped. It turned. I walked in.
Look, these things are supposed to have signs that say IN and OUT. Not just a turntable which stands there thinking FUCK YOU GUY, FIGURE IT OUT FOR YOURSELF. Come on.
I get in, it’s my first time actually inside a gym (if we disregard the scenic tour I was given last week by one of the instructors. He was so nice. I think we should call him Jesus. Jesus the Gym King. I’ll be your servant, any time.).
So I head for the treadmills because, even after Jesus’ scenic tour, I don’t really know how the fuck to operate anything else in this Jock Inferno. I mean there are some contraptions I wouldn’t know where to put my arms.
The treadmills have a queue. My pout is all like GET THE FUCK OUT OUT OUT GTFO! THIS IS YOUR MOMENT! RUN MARTY RUN! but I’m like no bitch, we’z going to STAY.
I go stand with the ladies. There’s so much sweat and towels and juice and headbands. I have a look in the mirror – if you overlook the oversized Nike skate shoes, I kinda fit in here. The joy of being skinny is that you can pretend to look fit. It’s only once you start cycling and panting like a dying dog that people realise you have no organs. I’m pretty much just bones. With icing.
So this damn queue for the treadmills really wasn’t working for me. I tried to chat up Blonde Headbanded Girl #1. I smiled like a goofy tard and said something like
“Uh hey so ha uh. Is this the queue for the um treadmills and the with the uh ah…Oh it is. Okay yay cool let’s be best friends ahahaha ahahaha jokes ahahahaha okay so uh ah how do they like actually work…like ahahaha i’ve like…this is like my first time here. ever. in a gym. ahaaa. oh just press Start? Oh okay totes simple aha. cool. okay. okay cool.”
But I never got a chance to press Start because the queue was really taking forever…and that’s when I bumped into Cool Lady of The Week, who happens to be the sister of the boy I am seeing (more on the lover soon. it’s slightly scandalous. he’s like an unofficial work colleague. he’s cuddly.). Anyway, she makes a damn good pasta, and has a pretty house, on top of this, she goes to gym regularly, so I think she deserves prizes. So when I saw her, I really wanted her to think I’m cool. Plus I want her brother to think I’m cool. So I was all pout pout pout. But then I realised she was the only human I knew in this room full of sweating machines and beeping bodies and I just broke down and was like
HALP MAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! I can’t get onto the treadmills but I can’t use anything else but I can’t leave what do i DOOOOOOOOOO
and she directed me upstairs, to the airwalkers? skygrazers? it’s something along those lines…anyway it’s those nifty machines which have two platforms for your feet, and handles for your arms, and you just walk (like a bit of an idiot with your ass on fire or something) and the platforms move under you, you pull the handles, and you come out looking like God. Supposedly. Again it’s all a matter of “push Enter Enter Enter, down arrow down arrow down arrow, Start”
GOT IT. I went and owned that little bitch of a machine. TWENTY SOLID MINUTES of walking the walk, sweating, breathing like I was being decapitated, walking to the beat of Of Montreal (MP3 Players define the real gym bunnies from the wannabes) and just generally looking in control.
While I was doing all this, I could spy on everyone else around me, because I was on the top floor. I learnt that you have to wipe down your machine with a paper towel after you’re done. I thought this was just for Hairy Hulk Men.
Then I realised I sweat that much too. I am a gross sweat-producing blob of pores. But it’s okay. Paper-towels. They’re our friends.
I saw some pretty serious Bromance between these two guys, the one trying to help the other lift some weights. It was all “ja boet push boet” and next thing you know these guys are all up in each other’s crotch areas…
Don’t you come tell me the Drama Department is weird when this is what you see at the GYM! I was pleased. I smirked.
Then I kept pouting.
Then I saw this wannabe boxer (although really, for all I know he’s a pro). He’s a huge huge guy, basically the size of my bed, with these pointy volatile arms…he just skipped around like a grasshopper and jabbed the punching bag a few times, all on his toes…I actually had to look away because I was starting to laugh out loud. He looked like he really believed the bag was going to punch him back.
And that’s about when my legs started trembling and I decided I didn’t want to die in front of any of these people, so I went downstairs and did some sexy-looking stretches (Drama technique + natural flexibility = holy toe-touching awesomeness) and then spastically walked out of the gym with my head held high.
I will be returning tonight to do some more reporting, miraculously I survived with very few muscle pains – I am walking like a normal human, and have no signs of splint shins or whatever other plagues gym bunnies usually get. I seem to be blending in well, minus the oversized shoes. Now to find a different outfit. Can’t be wearing the same shirt twice in a row, nuh uh gurl.