Stop Press! Virgin tries to get Active!

For those in the know, my antipathy and ignorance of all things gyms is no surprise. However, unusual and cruel circumstances amalgamating hormones, age, too many double mushroom swiss orders and the most lusciously wicked gelato has driven me over the edge. In a weak moment of despair at jeans that pinched my ass, I called, visited and signed up at Virgin Active. It was prophetic. This calamitous incident happened sometime in November and two credit card statements later, I propel myself to the stupendous 3 storey dungeon of torture. An unnaturally chirpy gentleman asks me if I want to use the equipment and I assure him of my lack of desire to do so.... instead, I gratefully clutch at his offer of a tour of the magnificent facilities. 

At reception level, they have a 'mini' something he called it - a bunch of treadmills and other  pieces of equipment that were for quickies. We then headed upstairs to a brand new floor which housed the main set of machines - row after row, flanked by the 'power plate' room which has these machines that buzz under you as your work out and a horrific room packed to the brim by static cycles, an empty studio innovatively labeled  Studio 1, another room filled with people thwacking big ballast punching bags and i'm informed that this is an 'Impact' class and the punching bags are moved to the side to make room for other torturous forms of exercise. There's once section which has big, fat weights and pumped up muscly men toying with them - they even have a floor area that's either reinforced or something for Olympic style weightlifting. Naturally all in front of a mirror so one can preen as needed. Needless to say, my brain has glazed over a while ago (the cycle room did it!) and I meekly follow him to another area on the floor which has hopscotch type diagrams on the floor. Apparently we are in the high impact circuit areas, which inexplicably is very popular. There are 2 such areas, and I'm sure the functionality of each was expounded upon, but by this time, panic had set in and all I could think was, "Shit! What on earth possessed me to get a membership at a gym?? I must have been mad. I don't want to come here". 

My chirpy chaperon guides me back to the reception are and then further down a another floor. A studio creatively called Studio 2 (I think) has a glass pane which allows me to spy on a bunch of people hanging on to red hammock type thingys suspended from the ceiling. It's the 'anti gravity' yoga class and hanging upside down can help extend your spine given how sitting at work all day compresses it. The logic is flawless and I tentatively inquire if one has to have a certain number of years as a practitioner of yoga prior to attempting this and his casual "Oh no" doesn't reassure me. These classes are always packed but they have a cancellation for the 2pm slot - do I want to give it a go? Hell. I suck in my stomach....why not.... we're all going to die anyway... 

Finally, we get to the non threatening part of the tour - the locker rooms which are cavernous and provide Molton Brown toiletries. Ooooohoooo.... I'm instructed to walk past the showers into another unisex area for some more cool stuff. I dutifully follow orders and find myself meeting up with chirpy chaperon at an area with foot basins. This then branches out to cold and hot rooms for either sex and then meets again at the back for the Salt room - moderately headed by some significant and exotic salts to 30 degrees. One can only enter the unisex areas in bathrobes, so I need to be worried by the unexpected sight of naked dangly bits. Right. That really was my main worry. I pretend an interest in the brownish crystals of salt and we went our way back separately through the His and Her locker rooms. Ta dah! Tour over. He beams. I smile back weakly. I'm overwhelmed.

My peripheral vision registers people working out diligently and I'm overwhelmed and a complete flight risk. We head back up to the reception and what do you know, someone has sneaked in and booked that last slot while we were on tour. Kismet??? One can only hope......