Hashtag keep your diet quiet, you smug dick

‘Spot the middle age lesbian on holiday AND LOVING IT’

Good lord. No regrets on the hat though- that bad boy kept my head blister free plus made me look fabulous…

Anyway, this picture got me thinking about exercise and how after being half dragged up that bloody mountain me and my friend George went on a ‘health kick’ and decided to sign up to the local gym. I had a lovely idea that I would return to Cardiff bronzed, skinny and maybe having grown half a foot from attending some exercise classes. Sadly, this was not to be, BUT I did learn some interesting things about group exercise:

Zumba is one for the fatties whilst aqua zumba is for the morbidly obese to shake their rolls to some Pitbull/Sharkia. Great Fun. The worst thing about this class is the wall of mirrors you dance directly in front of. I like to take the same approach to exercise as drunken dancing – I look spectacularly sexy. However, these mirrors just as the club photos seem to suggest otherwise. My main thought when hip shaking is “dreadful day to be wearing a grey top/ OMYGOD…. is my bum sweating or am I jiggling so much I wet myself??”

Boxercise was frankly terrifying. A tiny butch woman resplendent in boxing hand wraps screaming ‘THINK OF EVERYMAN WHO HAS EVER HURT YOU’ whilst a group of divorcee middle aged women angrily kick and punch the air. At one point she wanted to see imaginary ‘blood’. I obviously loved it. However, spin was the worst. It was all going so well until my own sweat trickled into my eye temporally blinding me and George was very nearly sick.

The thing is I want to be ‘happy and healthy’ and all that, but then I remember how incredible processed cheese tastes on chips when you’re drunk. Also if I ever turn into one of those twitter wankers who think it appropriate to tweet us daily progress reports on their fitness regimes/ eating programme feel free to shoot me: “Went for a run today and then had an apple and banana smoothie!! #yummy #fruit #healthy #summer2013” Hashtag keep your diet quiet you smug dick.

However, I will go to the gym purely to exercise on the perving perch looking down on the ‘no (wo) man’s land’ that is the weights floor of the gym behind the Union.  Whoever designed that building was a genius.

And I need to keep fit to keep up with all my strenuous exercise. Like when I was persuaded into lucky voice booth in Tiger Tiger on Monday night. I was physically sweating from jumping up and down, hitting my blow up guitar against the floor and head banging. Or on the ‘end of exams’ night out when I tried to break dance (a.k.a lay on the floor with my legs in the air whilst my friend Jo spun me around in a circle). That night I also thought I was a millionaire – the bank statement has not and will not be checked but I did come home with more money than I left with- a terrible terrible sign. I also thought I was a DJ and felt the need to jump on stage and then proceeded to awkwardly stand by the actual DJ not sure what to do.

Oh well, the only real exercise I need is fist pumping in clubs and making that conscious effort to walk to the chippy on the way home. And yes, I would like my greasy chips with shit loads of cheese on the top, thank-you very much!