Fitness and I have had a tempestuous relationship. I either loathe it or feel addicted to it, but mainly, I loathe it. In my attempts to rekindle the flames of passion between myself and physical fitness I have thrown myself into the relationship, with no concern for personal safety or dignity. In fact, it has very close echoes to my romantic liasons, which are frequently doomed. Still, a gym membership is less costly than a failed engagement for example, so I battle on.
Being terminally clumsy is neither cute or cooky, as portrayed by Hollywood. It is embrarssing and could end in litigation.
David, a suave young Italian that comes to pilates and circuit training was busy on the Swiss Ball doing press ups. He secretly harbours a bit of hatred for me. Being the only native English speaker in the class the instructor uses him to correctly demonstrate the more complicated excercises and he frequently has to hold positions for prolonged amounts of time.
The Swiss Ball I was given was larger than anyone else’s and my limbs are certainly shorter than my classmates. Incidentally, the classes happen in the middle of the gym, so you always have an audience. I was mid press up when Swiss Ball gate occured. Somehow the ball slipped from under my feet and my body shot to the left. I landed on David and kicked him in the head. This is not the first gym calamity that has befallen myself or my fitness buddies. I try and apologise and he gives me the look. The look that says he will never train near me again. I am quite relieved to be honest. At least we are all now on a level playing field.
After 3 hour of classes I am unable to move and hobble out to the sauna. I hang around for sometime in a towel. Then the steam clears in the sauna and I realise that the two men housed within what is effectively a hot shed with two cramped shelves are in the all together, together. I am British and a lone female. I drew the line at the naked Turkish Baths with two of my most trusted friends, when visiting Istanbul. In an amazing feat of British reserve, we all managed to have an eye locked conversation, as if we were about to take high tea. A far cry from the reality that we were about to be slung on marble plinths and have the bejesus battered out of us, by burly female massueses. Still, they were good friends, these people were naked Germans and so I turned tail, hopping with my bruised foot, that may or may not have marked the lovely David’s face, and limp off to the female only steam room. There are after all, some English sensibilities that I hold as dear as a very large beach towel.