I say we put things in order before we move on. Quoting my previous post:
I have joined the gym five times over a seven year period. Actually, what’s the other way to put it? I have QUIT the gym five times over a seven year period. The math is quite simple. On average, I quit the gym every year and a half.
As I’ve said before, you gotta learn from your previous mistakes. But where exactly did I go wrong?
I’ll make the answer easier to digest with a clear timeline of my failures.
I was 14 years old and my weight was something like 49 kg with my clothes on. I was just another underweight pale teenager. Actually, the palest of them all. And you know, those are the years when you kind of grow tired of video games and start seeking a different kind of attention so I felt the urge to change something in my body. Plus, it was to early for cosmetic surgery.
I looked in the mirror and I said: “Oh… this should be easy to fix!”
When my mother signed me up to the gym my aunt decided to com e along. While the personal trainer filled a form with my details, she started talking about her nephew’s old gym and how people used illegal steroids and how her nephew’s friends overdosed on them and almost died. My mom then started telling me off for something I had not done, telling me that if I ever took something she would disown me. My aunt backed her up, visibly pumped up, rhythmically alternating a ‘’yes’’ and a ‘’that’s right’’ while chewing her gum with her mouth open.
AS IF! I would never ever take a substance that is proved to make your penis shrink and your hair fall out. Not for the whole world.
I actually think I said that out loud which made the whole situation even more embarrassing.
Anyway, long story short. A few days after I started, a friend of mine who sometimes kept me company had the fantastic idea to pull down my sweatpants in front of the whole gym, exposing my ridiculous underwear. Very funny. At that point, I kind of felt like I had become the joke of the gym. I just went on holiday and never came back. Gone with the wind. Bye Felicia.
Yay! I found myself a proper gym buddy! This time I’m gonna make it work! I got a gym membership (in a different gym ‘cause the exposed underwear wound was still fresh.
And here I am, again, in a crowded stinky place. The personal trainer was a 60-year-old man with unnaturally white teeth and even more unnatural black hair. He always had sweaty eyebrows. He was the kind of polished ugly that usually confuses people.
Anyway, that’s not the point. I relied on my gym buddy to find the motivation to go to the gym and finally make it work. I made him my role model, my inspiration. It turns out that my gym-buddy liked to smoke two cigarettes right after a workout and only at that point did I realize that maybe he wasn’t exactly the health and fitness kinda guy I thought he was.
And then it all went away quite naturally. A month later, after skipping nine workouts, my buddy and I had a very brief discussion on whether we should renew the membership. We were in perfect harmony: NO – FUCKING – WAY.
Funny anecdote: a very kind gymtard saw me doing an exercise the wrong way and tried to help. His vocabulary was a little limited so he had to refer to Kamasutra positions every time he tried to explain how to do something. Creepy.
Tragic. Just tragic, really. Coming off a disastrous heartbreak, after the ice-cream eating, binge-drink, Adele-listening phase had faded off, I decided to take back control over my life.
I hurried through the victimization and self-motivational talk and the love yourself attitude and decided to cut to the chase. I told myself: ‘’If you weren’t this damn ugly maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation you know? It is all your fault. So go to the fucking gym and get it over with!’’
I joined my university’s gym. I know my self, so I decided to buy a three months membership. Then I would be forced to go for at least three months! Genius!
The first three workouts were just great: I felt fresh, powerful, I drank my protein shake and I smiled to people on my way to the train station (the fuck do you want? a well-mannered man asked me politely on one occasion).
But then something happened. I started meeting people from my course in the common areas at the gym. I tried to hide, avoid them, test my ninja moves. but it wasn’t enough. I just refused to let them see me sweat and suffer and be ugly in the attempt to be less ugly. It is such an intimate moment. It’s like letting them see me while I poop. It is just not going to happen.
So I said… maybe I should find another gym. And I quit, again. I only used that 3 months membership on another occasion: I happened to be in the area after Happy Hour and decided to use the gym’s toilet. It wasn’t a complete waste of money after all.
Only a month after the most recent failure and I moved into a new flat. And… surprise! There was a private gym for residents in the building I was moving in.
This must be a sign. It has to be a sign. Oh hell, I’m going to make this work! Very enthusiastically, I decided to join my fitness-oriented flatmates to the new gym. It goes well for the first two weeks (well if you exclude the usual pain and suffering and humiliation that normally come from exercising).
But then uni started, the first due-dates came and the anxiety kicked in. I was attending a new multimedia journalism module that was sucking the life out of me. And that’s how it ended: It was a leg day, I had to edit a video package and get three radio interviews after writing an opinion piece. I wore my gym clothes, put on Spotify’s Monday Motivation playlist, almost a cried a little bit and then I came to the realization that… AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT!
And, just like that, it’s over. Bye gym.
It’s January: due dates, exams, books, papers, notes. Sedentary life, Tesco sandwiches, whiskey sours. That had been my life for I don’t even know how long. I was, again, thin and emaciated. I gave the word desperation a whole new meaning. I was so desperate that I decided to go the gym just to take a break from studying and force myself to lead a healthier lifestyle. It lasted three days, with no psychological or physical benefit whatsoever. That’s why I quickly reverted to the old methods to relieve the stress during exam period: Netflix and chill. You can’t be wrong.
Excuses, excuses and more goddamn excuses. The writing’s on the wall: I’m a lazy fuck and I am now ready to take responsibility for all my failures. I won’t blame no evil friends, chain-smoking gym buddies, Kamasutra-loving gymtards, university, the weather or life in general. I am dead serious about this now: it must be done and IT WILL BE DONE.