Today's post was going to be about how the natural endorphins released by vigorous exercise can help restore the balance of one's moods.
However, my personal trainer cancelled on me, and the husband is out. So I won't be getting hot and sweaty with any man tonight.
Actually, fuck endorphins, finding out that I couldn't go for my training session raised my spirits immeasurably. Friends, I have tried, I have really, really tried, but ... I hate the gym.
When I started going (again) I pictured myself morphing in a few short months into one of those lycra-clad women. You know the type, the ones who don't wear a free, 5-year-old, radio-station, baggy T-shirt to the the gym. The women who just wear a bra to work out in, because they want to show off their washboard stomach (I have a washing machine stomach - complete with the gurgling noises). The women who can actually exercise in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors
without experiencing the urge to gouge their own eyes out. Women who finish their exercise glowing charmingly, not collapsed in a puddle emitting more heat than a domestic oven.
I will never join those ranks.
My personal trainer is encouraging, but I see myself reflected in his eyes. An uncoordinated, soft-round the edges, middle-aged woman (I'm not middle aged, I am a respectable 34 but this guy is about 24 so to him I am O-L-D). I swear some weeks, when he gets me to balance on some playground contraption and move one leg one way whilst doing something different with my arms he just does it for his own light relief, inwardly mocking me as I flail around like an epileptic disc jockey, (remember I am wearing an XFM breakfast show T-shirt - it all links up).
Actually the personal trainer is a nice guy, and I know he is trying his best with what I have presented him with. But I have grown to kinda hate him. So, apologies if this is your father's, brother's, lover's, favourite Jackson's or most revered female eunuch's name; but I am not going to be naming my first born Jermaine after this dude. He sacrificed all naming rights when he made me do squats, followed my pelvic thrusts in the weight room amongst all the steriod-pumped guys.
And if any one of you suggests that, even without the trainer, I could have gone to the gym by myself anyway then, so help me, I will find a way of blocking you from this site.
After an unexpected reprieve from exercise my mojo is now hovering around 5.
(Bought down by the fact I do feel a bit guilty for sofa snuggling tonight and, despite phone calls and emails, STILL no biopsy results.)