Anguish at the gym

I don’t know about anyone else, but I used to think the gym was for getting in shape. I once rocked up to the St Andrews sports centre during my first ever Freshers week (now, unfortunately, a distant memory) with a smile on my face and with the full intention of working off those damn Jagerbombs.  Armed with my school shorts, my Grandad’s wife beater and a neon pink headband, I took to the running machine at full speed. It was only once I was bright red (being very pale this happens extremely quickly), and in great pain due to the sweat dripping into my eyes that I realised that the rest of the gym was giving me funny looks. Then I realised all my fellow athletes were female.  And they all looked impeccable.  What is this place? I thought to my sweaty self, as they casually pedalled away as if they were cycling through the streets of Paris, instead of on a saddle attached to a rod with pedals (an extremely silly concept in itself).  

 Every time I’ve gone to the gym since, there have been numerous girls who arrive fully made-up, looking stylish and who hardly break a sweat. Unfortunately, they therefore make me look like a sunburnt asthmatic yeti lumbering away on the cross trainer and heaving for breath.  Any man walking past shoots me a look of alarm and sometimes concern. Then they catch sight of the gorgeous, leggy blonde next to me who shoots them a seductive glance from under her mascara-caked lashes and they almost fall over themselves with relief. 

Also there’s that stupid myth that men like the look of a girl when she’s working out because that’s what she’ll look like during sex. This is just plain bullocks. I don’t know what other people do during sex, but I definitely don’t turn bright red all over and sweat from every available pore (if my mother reads this – I have never experienced any sex, ever). Don’t try and make me feel better about looking revolting by pretending that men will be attracted to me.  The avoidance of eye contact and obvious horror at my odour tell me all I need to know.
 

 However, boys are in their element in the gym.  They can wear those silly lacrosse vest things (absolutely unacceptable in any other situation) and lift weights while staring admiringly at their forearms.  Sometimes they even seem to be surprised by the sight of their own bulging muscles.  As much as I hate myself for it, I’ve often lost concentration because Lax Bro flexed his muscles in my general direction.  And sweat somehow looks good on men. Another female grievance to add to the list, along with childbirth and the pressure to wax body hair.