Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Or lots of it. Lots and lots of miserable, straining, vein-popping sweat. I have gone back to the gym.

Long story short, I used to be a gym-aholic until "surrounding tension" (November archives) stepped in, and I instead became the couch potato-holic you see before you. It took a long (really long) time for me to be comfortable with working out, or even kinda sorta liking it, but me and gym have made our peace. I owe this to three things:

1) Rick

2) Late hours

3) Television

4) Gay town

Rick is the proprietor of Legends Fitness in the city, and one of the nicest people in the whole world. Oli still goes to Legends and sees Rick almost every night, and says he asks about me often. So often that he offered me a free membership for three months because he knows that me beautiful-er, will make me feel a whole lot better.

I am a night person. Legends is open until midnight, every night. Need I say more?

Legends also has television sets everywhere, dangling from metal rods on the ceiling. This may sound all modern and lazy, but I truly don't think there's such a thing as willpower when it comes to the Stairmaster.

Television can be that comfort zone you forget yourself with, and when you forget yourself, you don't think about the voices in your head prodding you with, "Oh man, I can't do this anymore, I'll just stop." Honey, believe you me, there's nothing better to take your mind off the sweat running into your eyeballs than reruns of "The X-Files". If I can't force myself into better shape, Mulder and Scully will.

Legends is in gay town. I talk a lot about gays & gayness, but I am definitely not a fag hag. Okay, maybe just a little. Fuckit, maybe a lot. But put it this way: not only do I live in one of North America's largest cities, but this city also happens to have one of the largest gay populations in the world. Thus, it is next to impossible to live in or frequent the downtown area without having a few homosexual accessories, no? And while you're at it, ponder this too: how nice it is to work out not a single man looking at you "that way." No meat market, sister, just you busting your ass on top notch equipment.

It's a comfort. Small comfort, but after frequenting suburbian gyms full of raging steroid athletes, it's a nice one.