Exercising my rights

Hands up if you love the gym! Yeah, gym!  Other people’s sweat on handlebars!  Bum wobbles! Mysterious pubes on the floor! Orcs bearing dumb bells!  Euro house!  Yeah!  The gym!


In fairness, I don’t really mind the place.  But that’s because I live in an apartment block with its own gym so I am duty bound to drag my ass up there as often as possible.  And it genuinely helps me switch off my mind, with its snarky affectations and deep unfathomable pools of bitterness.  Running on a circular belt with my mouth open really shows my shitty synapses who’s boss.  In truth, I am now on nodding terms with a few people, which is as close to neighbourly love as it gets in my building.  And I can block out most sounds thanks to a well placed podcast on a well inserted earphone (I lodged the bud in so hard yesterday that it was only when I took it out that I found the earring back which was attached to it.  I tried to pretend in my head that it was a metallic depth charger, sent in to to locate tiny spies in my ear canal, but I think I’ve been watching too many terrible films recently.)


So I can block it out and that’s good, but here’s the thing.  Very often I’m the only woman up there.  Now I believe that the gym is as much the natural home of a man as the tupperware party is for a woman, (i.e they are not), but more times than not I am distinctly outnumbered.  And it doesn’t worry me.  Either there are an inordinate number of gay musclemen in my block or I am even less attractive than I think i am, but I don’t get hit on, or feel remotely perved at.  Which is great, right?  So I shouldn’t complain, no?  It’s just … no it’s petty of me to say anything …it’s just, well it’s the music.  It offends me.  It doesn’t aesthetically displease me.  It’s just wrong.


There’s a sound system in the corner, tuned to either banal local radio or one a little portfolio of CDs.  Mostly rave type stuff which is okay to run to.  But today it was just me and some guy and gym etiquette dictates that whoever is first in is the DJ.  Which in this case meant him.  He puts a disc on.  At first it’s just a nice beat and I’m like, okay, fine and then there’s some rapping.  It’s that heavy low stuff where it sounds like they’re on anti depressants, so I put my ipod on and get on the treadmill.  I can see in the mirror the guy (who hasn’t exactly done much gym-ing to warrant being DJ in my opinion), nod his head, sidle over to the CD player and turn up the volume.  This is roughly what I hear:

‘split the bitch in half’.  I wince.

‘fuck the ho in the ass like she do it for cash’.  I roll my eyes at my gym ‘buddy’ in an astounding act of British passive aggression.

There was more, but I really don’t want to write it down.  Eventually the troglodyte went to examine his button mushroom in the gents, so I yanked the wires out of the back of the stereo (not sure why) and left the gym.  That sort of music really does inspire violence; what I really wanted to do was jam a 4kg handweight up his urethra, but hey, that’s not how I roll, dawg.


Obviously this was an extreme situation, because Notorious P. I. G had chosen to turn the music up, showing a blatant disregard for the sensory welfare of his neighbours, but even so, who the hell writes that stuff?  I don’t wish to be all Tipper Gore about this, but how is it okay to write lyrics like that?  Not just okay, but lauded in some circles?  If I wrote a song about anally penetrating a man causing him physical pain and ultimately bisecting him, I would expect approbation.  I certainly wouldn’t expect it to be such a mainstream choice as to be played out loud and with gusto in a unisex gym.


This isn’t a new issue,  I know.  What next, will I be complaining about those pesky Beastie Boys and the theft of VW badges?  That I once saw, with horror,  Ellen Terry’s ankle on stage? But sometimes, when you least expect it,  things like today happen and the inequality gap seems as wide and accepted as ever.  Now, where’s that 4kg weight?

A Song of Praise

Maybe Harold was just dislodging mascara sweat from his eye?

Ever trained so hard that your mascara mingles with the sweat, drips into and stings your eye?  I realise that this question may only apply to half my readers (or maybe more: holler back athletic transvestites!) but it needs to be addressed nonetheless.  I feel this question and the event that triggered it may have a greater signifcance in my life than you would think on first appearance.

Let’s break it down.  Training hard.  Mascara.  Sweat.  Not chocolate box, is it?  I was nearing 10 km on the treadmill when my vision blurred, my eye scrunched up leaving me looking like an elderly uncle in a sitcom and I wondered how I could feign nonchalance while dismounting the machine and relocate to the changing room to have a stroke in peace and quiet.

I plunged a kettlebell-scented digit in my eyeball area and calmed down;  nothing to see here, officer, just the chemical reactionof day-old Rimmel and perspiration.  But relief turned to exquisite pain (the sting intensifies for a wee while) turned to shame turned to a moment of Carrie Bradshaw-like reflection.  “I learnt a lot that day …..”

Let’s break it down again.  Training very hard.  Mascara.  Last night’s mascara.  Last night’s mascara because I hadn’t bothered to take it off.   Last night’s mascara because I’d drunk too much to bother to take it off.  Training hard because I felt bad about drinking so much.  Training hard while my veins were still pumping Shiraz.

Oh dear.

The sting in the eye was a smack in the face, an epiphany.  I’m a creature of extremes, I know that, but a great deal of my virtues are spurred on by intense guilt at the ridiculous things I do.  Like running on a hangover.  And I don’t mean to demonize booze but I have very little portion control.  A glass is a glass is a glass is a bottle.  So, we’re taking a break for a while, me and alcohol.  A trial separation, if you will.  And I have turned to the blogosphere for solace.  Hence the title of this ditty.  I am replacing wantoness with positivity, debauchery with gratitude.  So in no particular order:

Thanks, Persephone’s Step-sisters  for keeping me writing.  The 100 things I’m good at exercise was ridiculously hard but well worth the struggle.  Clown on Fire, you fart out rainbows like the creative and prolific unicorn that you are and I eternally admire you. Wake up Ami, your post on finding a passion really resonated with me.  Let’s embrace indecision – I feel better already.  And Robotic Rhetoric, you have the audacity of youth and the smarts to back it up.  That you should be such a knockout writer at such a young age is a source of great envy to me.  I look forward to the rest of the novel.

Enough.  Before I get all weepy and Sally Field-ish on your ass.