The combination of being THAT side of 25 and having absolutely no self control has led to a strong relationship with my track suit pants. This (apparently) is not attractive. At the end of last year, I came to the chubby realisation that perhaps it's time to join the gym.
With unrealistic optimism and an iPhone full of svelte Jane Fonda-like body inspiration photos, I signed a fortnightly portion of my income away and jumped on the gym's body scanner for an assessment of fat and muscle make-up. To my horror, the seemingly bemused gym boy advised that I needed to lose 8kgs of fat and gain nearly 10kgs of muscle. Whaaattt??!
4 months and punishing daily visits later, I found myself in a situation where I was splitting pants and gaining weight. No matter how much loving reassurance I was getting from Ev, I couldn't shake the idea that this has been a big fat costly waste of time. My glutinous and beer soaked past had caught up with me and set up a permanent home on my butt.
Now, I'm not usually the sort of person who succumbs to body image flagellation but with the amount gruelling time and effort invested, naturally, I getting pretty darn annoyed. Personal training seemed to be the next logical step. At 70 clams a session though, I thought it'd be best to confirm my lack of progress by booking in for another body scan.
Stepping on the scanner with trepidation, I watched and waited as my body was assessed and the were results printed. Expecting the worst, you'd understand my shock when the girl read the results of my exercise achievements. I have gained 9.3kgs of muscle!!! Holy macaroni!!!
To put it in perspective, I have gained muscle mass that is the equivalent to weight of:
An adult daschund; a fixed gear bike; a 4 person tent; 10 pineapples; or a large female adult turkey
It's pretty safe to say that the pump classes are probably working a little too well.
