Postcards from the gym.

Let me confess to you some of the things that happen at my gym lately.

  • I can tell I am becoming less bulgy and more athletic-looking because I am starting to show up on the radar of the men at the gym. You can see them looking. Bear in mind, if you wanted to be subjected to unrealistically hard-to-achieve standards of female beauty and fitness, there is simply no better place in Britain that you could go than an upmarket London gym. So it is worth something to me if I’m showing up on the beauty radar in that environment because nobody at my gym is out of shape and I am one of very few women that doesn’t have hair extensions and a spray tan (how much do you want to bet these things are in my future). Yesterday a guy my age was checking me out in reception and today the young guy who sold me my chicken soup in the restaurant was blatantly flirting with me.
  • My plan today was to do weights at the gym and then some cardio on the treadmill. I did the weights (1 Health point) but then I got off the treadmill after precisely 1 minute and 40 seconds because I wanted to talk to my boyfriend, I mean Abdul.
  • The last couple of days, I’ve committed further crimes against feminism by arriving at the gym in my shades and then going directly to the women’s locker room to apply concealer, eye liner, mascara and lip gloss before going to the weights room or doing anything else. I know, seriously. I’ve become one of those women that puts on make-up just to work out.
  • Even though I am terrible at swimming, I swim now. In eyeliner and mascara. Sometimes in a bikini.

My first swimming lesson is lined up for Thursday. This Thursday. That’ll put a stop to me wearing mascara in the pool. It’s going to be goggles all the way, isn’t it. Sexy.

Let’s have some more Slick Rick. There’s nothing I want right now that Slick Rick doesn’t have.

Slick Rick: Trapped In Me (1999)

One thought on “Postcards from the gym.”

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