Packed Muscles Vs. Packed Shit

If you wish to join a gym, do it with a friend or partner. The act of exercising in a room layered with mirrors and dance music is excrutiating at best; to successfully survive it you need that person to chat with, joke around, encourage and be encouraged by, who can distract you from the absurdity of it all. I've been a wannabe gym bunny since I was 17, but my attempts have always failed because the boredom of working out alone eventually outdid my desire to be fit. The longest I've been a gym member was in King's College, when Megan (my current landlady) was my gym buddy. As luck would have it, we have partnered again and become gung-ho about joining Body Pump classes, brainwashing our boyfriends into joining us, and determined to be fit by December. Be prepared for many horryfing posts about Step classes and neon lycra. :-P

The gym was empty this morning. I felt free and easy as I went from treadmills to machines, then weights. On the stretching mat, I was assailed by a strong whiff of shit. I checked everywhere until I finally spotted the distinct, packed, grassy, brown turd stuck to my right foot. I quickly retreated to the disabled stall in the boys room and picked it off with my locker key. After washing my hands and the key, I switched my belongings to a new locker and returned to the workout room (I couldn't bear the thought of that used key in my pocket).

Kevin is cooking lunch. The plan is to take The Guardian and some coffee to Victoria park, walk by the canal, buy some earth and pots for plants, and clean the apartment. I want to glide through the day. At night, we might watch a movie (we watched Capote last night, which was very good -- I hear there's another recent movie on him which is equally well-made.)