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sweat

I'm joining one of those 30-minute Chick Gyms - you know, the ones where you do a circuit of machines and it takes half an hour. Curves are the most popular ones, but I'm going to a Curves knockoff which is right near St. Ned's. As soon as I get over the fact that the carpet is Barbie-aisle pink (women love it!), I will be able to get on with hating the music. Seriously, I heard Electric Slide today, and I wasn't even at a badly DJ'd wedding. There is an audible cue telling you to move to the next machine, so strapping on Larry the iPod isn't an option.

The vast negativity of the above paragraph should tell you how I really feel about exercise. As in, I hate it. I hate it with the heat of a thousand hatey suns. Bah.

My current body shape would probably tell you that, though. And the fact that I don't have a lot of energy most of the time. So, fuck it, I'm going to try working out, in the least threatening setting money can buy. I joined the Y last year and that just didn't work out, for a number of reasons, some of them financial (I couldn't afford the full-hours membership, and my plan of leaving work for lunchtime sessions never actually happened), and some of them related to being in a locker room and feeling like a total fraud. So I'm going to Cheap Chick Pink Carpet Gym. I'm not getting into a long-term contract, though, because I would like to graduate to grownup gym at some point.
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