<text>ELEANOR Roosevelt is known to have said: Do one thing every day that scares you. So after one (dozen) too many indulgences, this reformed party princess has decided to take the old gal’s advice. Joining the gym. There is a certain flavour of failure one can only experience by joining a gym at my age. It really doesn’t compare to the usual feelings of inadequacy elicited from other aspects of my life: roll and cheese and onion for breakfast; inability to adhere to the’ four drink rule’; attraction to all the wrong kinds of men. It goes deeper than that, right into the very core (did you get that?) of your being. It comes from that knowing smile the staff give you as you sign up gallusly for twelve months. And from the slightly hysterical small talk you make about how I used to be super fit but life - specifically chicken chow mein, vodka and sheer laziness — got in the way. But I used to be a whizz hockey player and the best tree climber in the scheme. That must count for something, surely? The fitness industry must have a name for us types. ‘Fresh meat’, perhaps? We are the ‘aw the gear but nae idea’ brigade who shuffle in, resplendent in neon (tags still on), knowing zilch about locker protocols or who gets to baggsy their mats first and nab a spot at the back. It’s first day at high school stuff. But without the smoking in the toilets, sadly. And the hot senior boys. But summer’s a-coming. And the legs and tum are going to have to be aired at some point. So I start dredging the very bottom of my drawers to find the bloody stuff. Predictably, I can’t find two white socks that match. But I find the leggings. Oh lordy. They’ve bloody shrunk, clearly. I don’t even go near the matching crop top, plumping instead for an oversize tee which may, just may, create some kind of optical illusion. I roll up the sleeves to a short, jaunty length as if proud of my upper arms. I plan to keep them waving around so that no one can see otherwise. Driving there, I admit I felt twinges of panic. As a token last minute prep I suck in my stomach (no discernible abs in there as yet) and clench my butt. That should do it, I thought, as I hastily corrected my swerve and checked for the polis. I can do this. So, like everyone else I half jogged, in a sprightly, devil–may-care attitude up the steps and to the front door. Ooh, a wee twinge there. In daylight, I see that little fuzzy bit on my leg I always miss. But I stride in; and as is my wont, deposit all my essentials in the locker (water, towel, gym card) and march towards the ‘studio’ clutching all the non-essentials (phone, car keys, extra lip gloss). They old hands can smell my fear. I am Oliver to their Fagin. They circle me, sizing up my abs, pecs, flabs and specs. Before I know it, I’m at the front, goofing up in full view of these seasoned alpha females who know all the moves. My own fault for choosing these gym-bams over my jim -jams. Why is it that with an alcoholic drink in my hand, I can keep time with music, know my left from my right and quite enjoy pouting in a mirror? But when I attempt it sober, it is a shambles? I lurch from left to right, standing on other folks’ mats and choosing all the wrong weights. In normal life, I carouse away quite confidently to pretty much every Ibiza house classic known to man, yet in this room I could just as well be Morris Dancing. I am black affronted. And as for the instructor? When I first see her, I’m feeling pretty confident. She’s kinda wee, bit mousy, not much to say for herself. I could take her, I think. Run rings round her on the dancefloor, out patter her — the lot. Hell, she doesn’t even look like she could run a bath. But two mins of Ibiza Club Classics in, though, I bitterly regret my ill-judged smugness. She’s bounding around the studio like a three year old on Haribo barking orders in some kind of foreign language. Squat? Plank? Those are words I usually associate with ex-boyfriends. I had a momentary surge of hope when I heard a talk of a ‘kettle’ but that also didn’t turn out well, as it happened. No biscuits either. But I get through it. I limp out, in agony already, forcing a smile and a weak see you Thursday for the next one. Blatant lie. Next morning, I am in agony. I cannot move my arms, can barely dress, and make up application is beyond me. I shamble into work looking like a bag lady, who cannae even lift her bag. I receive sympathetic looks. Is this what the gym does to you? </text> <text>ELEANOR Roosevelt is known to have said: Do one thing every day that scares you. So after one (dozen) too many indulgences, this reformed party princess has decided to take the old gal’s advice. Joining the gym. There is a certain flavour of failure one can only experience by joining a gym at my age. It really doesn’t compare to the usual feelings of inadequacy elicited from other aspects of my life: roll and cheese and onion for breakfast; inability to adhere to the’ four drink rule’; attraction to all the wrong kinds of men. It goes deeper than that, right into the very core (did you get that?) of your being. It comes from that knowing smile the staff give you as you sign up gallusly for twelve months. And from the slightly hysterical small talk you make about how I used to be super fit but life - specifically chicken chow mein, vodka and sheer laziness — got in the way. But I used to be a whizz hockey player and the best tree climber in the scheme. That must count for something, surely? The fitness industry must have a name for us types. ‘Fresh meat’, perhaps? We are the ‘aw the gear but nae idea’ brigade who shuffle in, resplendent in neon (tags still on), knowing zilch about locker protocols or who gets to baggsy their mats first and nab a spot at the back. It’s first day at high school stuff. But without the smoking in the toilets, sadly. And the hot senior boys. But summer’s a-coming. And the legs and tum are going to have to be aired at some point. So I start dredging the very bottom of my drawers to find the bloody stuff. Predictably, I can’t find two white socks that match. But I find the leggings. Oh lordy. They’ve bloody shrunk, clearly. I don’t even go near the matching crop top, plumping instead for an oversize tee which may, just may, create some kind of optical illusion. I roll up the sleeves to a short, jaunty length as if proud of my upper arms. I plan to keep them waving around so that no one can see otherwise. Driving there, I admit I felt twinges of panic. As a token last minute prep I suck in my stomach (no discernible abs in there as yet) and clench my butt. That should do it, I thought, as I hastily corrected my swerve and checked for the polis. I can do this. So, like everyone else I half jogged, in a sprightly, devil–may-care attitude up the steps and to the front door. Ooh, a wee twinge there. In daylight, I see that little fuzzy bit on my leg I always miss. But I stride in; and as is my wont, deposit all my essentials in the locker (water, towel, gym card) and march towards the ‘studio’ clutching all the non-essentials (phone, car keys, extra lip gloss). They old hands can smell my fear. I am Oliver to their Fagin. They circle me, sizing up my abs, pecs, flabs and specs. Before I know it, I’m at the front, goofing up in full view of these seasoned alpha females who know all the moves. My own fault for choosing these gym-bams over my jim -jams. Why is it that with an alcoholic drink in my hand, I can keep time with music, know my left from my right and quite enjoy pouting in a mirror? But when I attempt it sober, it is a shambles? I lurch from left to right, standing on other folks’ mats and choosing all the wrong weights. In normal life, I carouse away quite confidently to pretty much every Ibiza house classic known to man, yet in this room I could just as well be Morris Dancing. I am black affronted. And as for the instructor? When I first see her, I’m feeling pretty confident. She’s kinda wee, bit mousy, not much to say for herself. I could take her, I think. Run rings round her on the dancefloor, out patter her — the lot. Hell, she doesn’t even look like she could run a bath. But two mins of Ibiza Club Classics in, though, I bitterly regret my ill-judged smugness. She’s bounding around the studio like a three year old on Haribo barking orders in some kind of foreign language. Squat? Plank? Those are words I usually associate with ex-boyfriends. I had a momentary surge of hope when I heard a talk of a ‘kettle’ but that also didn’t turn out well, as it happened. No biscuits either. But I get through it. I limp out, in agony already, forcing a smile and a weak see you Thursday for the next one. Blatant lie. Next morning, I am in agony. I cannot move my arms, can barely dress, and make up application is beyond me. I shamble into work looking like a bag lady, who cannae even lift her bag. I receive sympathetic looks. Is this what the gym does to you? </text>