let's get physical

The other day I was at the gym (and I say the other day, but I was actually still in Sydney, so it was more like three months ago) and I saw a woman doing her first-visit-fitness-evaluation thing. I always feel a bit sorry for people when I see them doing this – I felt like a total knob when I did mine. All that earnest discussion (all fictional on my part) about my eating habits, what I wanted to achieve and how I thought I could do it. And then half-heartedly doing a few reps on each machine while being scrutinised by the trainer, who wasn’t technically hot, but was cute enough that being unable to do more than 3 triceps lifts in front of him was embarrassing.

My personal gym neuroses aside, this woman would have been fairly innocuous-looking, were it not for the fact that she was wearing – at the gym, remember – a black sparkly one-shoulder Lycra top. Seriously. At Fitness First Willoughby.

So obviously I spent the rest of my 45 min stint on the treadmill gawking at her, and in fact time actually passed much more quickly than usual (must remember, judging makes exercise fun!). I just couldn’t figure out what the thinking was that led to the particular car-crash fashion moment. I finally concluded that she must have had a big night out at Jackson’s on George (for those not in the know, a heinously tacky Sydney psuedo-bar/club monstrosity) the night before, couldn’t find an appropriate gym top in the morning, so just threw on her faithful party top, even though she had spilled a bit of Malibu and pineapple on it (and don’t act as if that’s never happened to you).

Clearly this is all speculation. But I think I’m right.

There’s no real conclusion, or moral, to be drawn from this anecdote, but if there had to be one I suppose it would be, don’t be drunk when you get dressed for you gym evaluation, or mean fashion-hags who look like Cruella de Vil will judge you.

I’d like to see that come up in a fortune cookie.