Virgin Active

Went for my first class at the gym today. Such a novel experience to tap in to a gym... and then battled with my locker for 7 minutes trying to get the sophisticated electronic lock to obey my desire for it to seal the contents I'd rendered within. Luckily, I had espied someone doing it and someone else struggling with it (my instructor for the day as it turns out), so I didn't just  screech and stalk out sure in the belief the gym was against my karma. 

Poncy gyms apparently give you lycra type clothes to wear during the workout. The lady guarding the kit and the towels asks me what colour I want. Really? You want me to pick between pink and purple? She holds up a L against me and then decides and XL is more appropriate. I have to agree and I start wishing I lived in Florida. I accept a pink shirt but decline the shorts - a bruise the size of a continent even when fading on cellulite is not an attractive sight. 

I make my way to Studio 1 and it's just the two of us. We agree that I just take it at my own pace and avoid the jumps. Jumps? What the hell kind of Latin Fitness class is this? I'm expecting dance related exercise..no jumping. Sadly, as a few more reluctant souls fill in, she informs us that it's 'fitness' and not just dance. Bugger. 

My list of hate has now expanded to include locals that do not sweat. My towel is damp, the pink shirt soggy and despite frequent dashes for the towel, I managed to drip on the floor. The torture lasts an hour and takes all the joy out of any form of dance. My knees are begging me for mercy and my bruise has informed me that squatting type nonsense isn't appropriate. I also know that 'good job ladies' is a platitude. I hobble down to the locker room and the electronic lock obeys almost like it can feel the end of the rope I'm on. I strip, sodden top, soaked panties (yeah! I wish!!) and a wet waistband of my tracks. Ugh. I send up a prayer to the fairies that dry things and head for the showers. Hmmm, clearly designed for small people, but then I find the lever for the rain shower and I wallow. Wallow and do full paisa vasooli to all the Molton Brown products. The towel is the best thing in my entire gym experience to date. Big, rough and deeply comforting. Then I make the mistake (naturally after having seen someone else do it!) of climbing atop the weighing scales. I'm rendered speechless and spluttering. How the fuck?! When? I step off, shake my head and climb back up again.... this cannot be right. Dear Lord. I'm doomed.

On my way out, I feel compelled to ask what classes are on tomorrow. Of course, we at Virgin Active are far to sustainable to use paper timetables and I'm handed an iPad with the list of classes. Naturally, both anti gravity yoga classes are full and I settle for dance class.... MTV Groove apparently... I'm too depressed to care and leave to scour Soho 1 for a salad.