Living with a gym addict is the worst
It just makes you feel guilty
You might think living in a house of gym-obsessed, early-rising “gym bunnies” is the perfect way to get your own body on track – but you’d be wrong.
Waking up to the sweet sound of your housemate’s NutriBullet every morning is enough to put anyone off joining in the hype. No matter how much everyone dreams of having a perfectly toned bod.
You only see the downsides when you live with them, and it seems like way too much effort. It’s all early wake-up calls, white protein powder all over the kitchen worktop and moist socks.
Firstly, they’re never around to hang out with. When you want to just come back from uni and slob out, they’re either doing a workout or off to the gym. Apparently the Armitage Centre is far too “amateur” for my fitness fanatic housemates, so they make a daily treck to the newly-refurbished Aquatics Centre all in the name of gains. I’d rather stay in Fallow Café an hour longer to be honest.
The free-weights section is where they spend all their time, and try not to insult them by mentioning the cardio section. With a protein drink vending machine and swimming membership included, how could they resist the utopia that is the Aquatics Centre? I found it surprisingly easy.
They make me feel guilty about how much I do, and how much I eat. Something I will never understand is how such a restricted diet can be fun.
They thrive on their potential gains in the kitchen, dragging us to Worldwide supermarket on curry mile for an extremely oversized chicken breast and a few kilos of spinach. Safe to say none of my housemates step up to accompany me to Chester’s after a night out.
They even venture outside the culinary luxuries of Fallowfield to foreign destinations such as “The Earth Cafe” to devour a quick quinoa salad and a beetroot brownie or two. If it’s not in Fallowfield it’s not worth it as far as I’m concerned.
You can never enjoy food with them. There’s no sitting watching a film with ice cream and a takeaway, or cooking up pastas and roasts together. They consider the perfect snack to be a couple of hard-boiled eggs, meaning I have a permanently unpleasant aroma to contend with in the kitchen. Surely a casual Maccies chicken nugget is the better option? It’s still chicken.
As if the egg smell wasn’t bad enough, the stench of the lads when they get back from the gym is grim. And why do they insist on cooking their protein-filled dinners as soon as they get in? Have they never heard of a shower?
And don’t get me started on the laundry they manage to accumulate in a week. I’m lucky if the washing machine is empty enough for me to do one wash a month.
Why are they all so keen that we join in on the hype? Wouldn’t it be far more ego-boosting for them to compare their boiled chicken salad to our Papa John’s deluxe special? Can’t they just keep it to themselves?
Every evening I am left baffled as us non-fitness enthusiasts are subjected to a foam rolling and stretching session in the living room, just to stretch out the non-existent muscles we have been working ever so hard on. I was perfectly happy watching Eastenders thank-you very much.
I now consider myself extremely lucky if we are able to hold a conversation without mentioning the words protein or gym. No, my essay isn’t related to either of the above.
It seems there is just no escaping the workouts, muscle, protein and sweat when you live in a house of “gym bunnies”.
I suppose we could just join them on their quest for universal fitness motivation. But cake.