The gym and how to avoid it

10:26am Wednesday 9th April 2008

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The gym kit is in the boot of the car - at least, I think it is. It's been so long since I put it in there that I hardly dare look in case it's taken root, or started breeding, like those Tribbles in Star Trek.

Twice a day, every day, the gym kit nears its destination - and twice a day it gets its little heart broken as I drive on briskly by. On quiet mornings I can almost hear the mournful bleating from behind the back seat.

You know, I joined that gym because it would be on my direct route to and from work. That way, I'd have no excuse not to go.

I bought my nice, bright gym kit in the hope that I might enjoy putting it on every now and again, and I set myself a target of a very active holiday that I knew I'd have to get in shape for.

But - and I know not all men will agree with this point of view - for me, there's nothing quite so demoralising as watching Kylie's bum on the big screen as I sweat it out on the cross-trainer.

Her pert backside is indeed spinning around in a pair of gold lamé hot pants, but it only serves to remind me how my own derriere is blocking out the light as it wobbles its way through the pain barrier.

It's not just Kylie, either. I thought parenthood tied you to the home, but whenever I do slink shame-facedly into the changing-rooms these days, I can't seem to move for yummy mummies. They all have beautiful babies in tow, yet they somehow lack any sign of a post-pregnancy belly. I don't know, maybe they're the au pairs, not the mummies. You can only hope.

I got myself an mp3 player a while ago in the belief the music would blur the agony and the boredom for me. But instead of the hours flying by, all that seems to have happened is that I now know exactly how many seconds all my favourite songs last.

In fact, I find myself willing the tunes I love to finish, instead of losing myself in the music as I'd imagined.

In my snootier moments, I consider the whole concept of going to the gym a bit ridiculous.

Think about it for a minute. You get yourself a load of labour-saving devices around the house to make life easier for you, and use your car to take you to and from the corner shop. Result? You pile on the pounds.

Solution? You pack your bag as though heading off for a fortnight's holiday and drive somewhere that's probably within cycling distance in order to work off the lard on an exercise bike, alongside a load of other guilt-trippers. Looking down the line of gym machines, you can't help but think of hamsters on their wheels, running like mad but getting nowhere fast.

Where will it all end, I wonder, as I reach for another chocolate and settle down to watch Judge Judy.

The answer, of course, is that I'm not about to part with the car, the Hoover or the washing machine.

And unless I switch the telly off and get down to the gym one day soon, my backside will end up needing a post code.