6 March 2012


I've never really caught the Gym bug.

My idea of a cardiovascular workout is climbing an escalator.

And even then, I can only make it half way before I nearly pass out and have to spray water on my face, panting, "Good job, great workout. Same time tomorrow?"

So, it has come as a surprise, even to me, that I have made contact with a Personal Trainer.

*breaks out in sweat*

I want to love the Gym, but I just fucking hate it.

The people are so sanctimonious - if I see an FB status update with "just had a great work out" I immediately unfriend them. There is an over abundance of mirrors - I don't need to see the back of my head, thanks. The weights are really heavy and it hurts to lift them. AND committing 4 hours a week when I'd rather be home watching Desperate Housewives is just inconvenient.

So, why even bother?

Well, I am getting to a certain age *reaches for brown paper bag* where I can no longer rely on my youthful good looks.

There I said it, I'm getting old-er.

At this point, I don't know whether to hyperventilate into the bag or just put it over my head.

And Gays are a fickle youth obsessed bunch - today's Zac Efron is tomorrow's Justin Timberlake (sorry JT, it's over), so it's high time I started pumping iron.

This Reinvention is about eliminating all potential hazards in getting a boyfriend. Starting with the exterior.

I'm meeting the Personal Trainer this week.

I hope he's hot at least.

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