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I submitted the below for an assignment that required we write a humorous anecdote about an occurrence in our daily life. I got an overall Credit for the assignment although there was a second part to it (a satirical piece that I’ll post another day). Now to get my ass in gear and get back to the gym. Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. 

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I’d call myself a reluctant gym goer… at best. I don’t particularly enjoy exercising. Yes, I like long, leisurely strolls through picturesque landscapes and casual games of tennis but real exercise? The kind that makes you red and sweaty and out of breath? Yeah, not so much. Once upon a time, I didn’t need to exercise to stay skinny. Back then, I had this fleeting thing called “youth” and a fast metabolism on my side and that was enough to keep me lithe and limber, no further maintenance required.

But then I got an office job where I learned to relish the hours sitting on my bum. And, of course, sitting on said bum made me realise that said bum could stand to be plumped up a bit, you know, to make it more cushion-y for all the sitting I was doing. So, of course, I had to up my eating game and, as it turns out, my eating game is pretty strong. I’m especially handy with a plate of pasta and anything sweet. Literally, anything sweet. Does it have sugar in it? Honey? Agave? The naturally sweet tears of an organic unicorn? If so, I’ll eat it. I’m that dedicated.

But, of course, such dedication to bottom plumping via constant food consumption has its dark side (who would have thought?). I now find myself in quite the predicament. I don’t want to lose my lusciously plump butt but, sadly, other less desirable areas have also “benefitted” from my plumping regime and these areas must be tamed, somehow. And, yes, perhaps my butt could stand to see some toning after such consistent plumping. Can’t hurt, really. And so it was that I signed myself up for the gym with every intention of (reluctantly) participating in (gasp!) real exercise. Predictably, my first class didn’t go well.

For the first few minutes, I felt elated. I could do this. I was doing this. It would be done! But then it got hard. I was tired. My arms were tired. My legs were tired. Every fibre of my being was tired. I felt a crushing exhaustion at the very core of my soul. I projected laser beams of pure hate towards this instructor who seemed bent on making me feel the burn, much against my wishes. I was sweating, a bodily function I have always thought particularly cruel and unnecessary. Somehow, I stuck it out, mainly because I refused to give that bastard instructor the pleasure of seeing me crumple into a pile of sweaty, shaking “muscle”.

If that was the full extent of my experience, I would’ve probably never gone back. But, at the end of the class, a magical transformation took place. My endorphins kicked in and – behold! – I was filled with love and positivity. I could do anything! I was struck with the thought that I was like the modern day Jekyll and Hyde, except my Mr Hyde only comes out at the gym and then promptly scurries off as soon as the exercising is done. Also, no one’s been killed. Yet. Although, there’s still time.

Nowadays, I’ve more or less made space in my life for the gym. Although, my gym habits are often characterised by spurts of near obsessive attendance followed by languid periods of inactivity, where I indulge my sweet tooth and craving for comfort foods. Gym classes still fill me with shameful, murderous thoughts that, thankfully, vanish as soon as the class is over. My plumping regime continues albeit in a much more restrained manner, more in line with my desire to maintain my rotundness, rather than increase it.

You could say I’ve come to terms with my need to exercise. As angry as it might make me, I have learned to love the pain and look forward to the pleasure that follows. Maybe one day, I will even stop hating my instructor. Not today though.

Image credit: Uncommon Chick

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