What women think
October 2005
Gym jams
I should know better. It happens at this time every year. I should be prepared, ready, on target. You would think that after the first 20 times I'd get the hang of it. No such luck. Spring has arrived; the ephemeral Brisbane winter has given birth to yet another gloriously long summer and I'm still carrying the baby fat from indulging in a habit I picked up in childhood called eating.
Every September I promise myself that it will not happen again. That I will not be caught short unable to wear shorts because I've gained winter weight.
Hello?!? It's now October! All the bulky cover-your-sins clothes have given way to skimpy, floaty, wispy little things. Worse, there are these clothing items everywhere that I've been told are called togs, essential garments for us to partake in the great Queensland past-time of swimming and sunbaking and going to the beach.
They force us to expose great globby bits of flesh, all in aid of cooling down in the water. Babes hate them. It's ok for blokes. They can be fat, thin, hairy, smelly and still rip off their t-shirt and sunglasses, walk idly around the pool and plunge into the water. They don't care.
I'm yet to see a bunch of blokes at the beach whimpering "don't look at me, I'm so fat" as they head for the water. Sometimes I wish I'd been born in 1860 and could wear clothing resembling a doona to the beach.
I got together with some girlfriends to lament these annual platitudes over a restorative plate of gnocchi boscaiola (extra cream in the sauce thanks), garlic bread (double serve, do you mind?), house red (actually we'll just get a bottle, much easier), and lattes (do you do them in a mug?)
What was the point, I figured. One more meal akin to the 50 I'd consumed over winter wouldn't make any difference.
Jane started. "I've got to lose weight. I rang up yesterday to hire a treadmill. Great idea, doncha think? I was going to put it right in front of the television. That way I can watch The Biggest Loser and exercise! The one I saw advertised even had a drink holder. I don't think it was for a wine glass, I think it was for a bottle of water, but you can't be too sure.
"Anyway, get this, I rang them up, and they don't have any left. None. No exercise bikes either. No cross trainers, whatever the hell that is, a float for the Mardi Gras in Sydney perhaps? I could get a fitball but I'd have to inflate it myself," she said as she drew back on her cigarette.
Collective panic set in around the table. Clearly we weren't the only ones desperately seeking absolution for our orange-peel thighs. The questions started. Did she ring other hire places? Were they out of stock too? What about going on a waiting list? How much are they to buy? Have you checked eBay?
"What if we join a gym?" I ventured, adding yet more Parmesan to my meal whilst deliberating whether I'd have caramel or butterscotch sauce on my sticky date pudding. "You know, ask for a corporate membership, personal trainers, stuff like that? Thanks doll, I'd love some more red."
Bec volunteered to research the gym and came back two days later with her report. Cost would be $35 a fortnight, including massage, nutritional check and one free personal training session.
Sounded fab, except for one problem - commitment. I can't commit to a dinner service pattern. How am I supposed to commit to a gym?
Gyms across Australia make their annual budget in September. Women like me see sunlight, think togs, check mirrors (from the back) and panic. They run to the first gym they see, brandishing credit cards and cheque books, sign up for a year and leave clasping a membership.
Then they forget to go. Forget that the key ingredient is actually visiting the establishment and moving about in some form on the equipment. These people are known as gym-donors. The bread and full-fat butter of the gym industry. They hand over money without setting foot in the place. They keep the wheels turning but never get on the bike.
"I know, we'll just go walking. It's free, it's available 24/7, and we can go for as long or as short as we want." Sighs could collectively be heard. Easy solution to a complex problem.
"Ok," I said, feeling very zealous and motivated. "We'll start tomorrow at lunch time. We'll meet outside my building at 12 and walk around the Gardens."
"Lunch tomorrow's no good for me," said one of the group. "I'm meeting my mother for coffee."
"And I've got a meeting that will go till 2," said another.
"No worries," I said, steadfastly holding on to a mental picture of me in togs. "What about after work?"
"I'm meeting someone for drinks."
"I've got to pick up the kids early."
And so it goes.
I can't say for sure whether that walking group will ever convene, or if any of us will ever get to that gym, but I can say one thing for sure.
Come this time next year, we'll still be talking about it. How do I know? I've already booked the table and asked the restaurant to open a bottle of red.
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