My day job comprises of sitting behind a desk all day (looking busy) and the most strenuous bit of activity I get to do is when I lift a pen up to write something. So I decided it was time I got my arse to the gym to do something. If I happened to lose a bit of weight/tone up (how gay does that sound) or end up with muscles like Popeye then all will be good (although my right bicep doesn’t need feeding much more spinach at the moment).
I’ve been going the gym (intermittently) for about a month now, but to be honest I haven’t really known what I’m doing. I’ve been going there just to do something rather than sit at home watching The One Show wondering when Chiles will shave his trampy beard.
That was until I bumped into a friend at the gym, who is a personal trainer, and I took him up on his offer to ‘put you through your paces’.
The first session last week didn’t last long (or should I say: I didn’t last long!), but it was more productive than what I’d been doing previously. I’d basically been having a nice little bike ride whilst staring at the lovely ladies on the treadmill in front.
Muscles I forgot I had have been rudely awakened. After the first bout of torture I would’ve been more stable after a Saturday night out; I ended up walking out of the gym like a new born calf.