I have done the gym.
After battling through hurricane-like gales to sign up this morning (see? COMMITMENT) I have just now returned from my induction.
This entirely hideous experience saw ‘fitness manager’ Jamie – who appeared to be sculpted entirely out of rock – grunt incoherently at me while taking my measurements, before announcing that one of my thighs is bigger than the other, and that this is probably down to my ‘stride’, prompting an emotionally devastating flashback to the time my mother announced that I walk like a sailor in front of my then-boyfriend. Hurrah.
Jamie ‘Just Call Me Jay’ then asked if I had any goals I’d like to achieve, so I rattled off my spiel about the run in March. “I’d like to complete that without dying,” I quipped, to which he sternly replied, “Why? Are you ill?” prompting a flashback to the time I made a joke about stabbing my boyfriend to a knife saleswoman and subsequently having a security guard follow me around the department store.
I then ran ONE ENTIRE KILOMETRE on the treadmill before mashing wildly at the big red stop button and breathlessly panting “I think that’s enough for now,” much to the disgust of the die-hard gym-goers either side of me stomping furiously on their machines like drones.
Back on Thursday for resistance training and, as Jamie so hilariously added, to see ‘if we can sort out those mismatching thighs, eh?’ Great.