I’ve discovered pumping iron is far more fun if you grunt and carry on like Monica Seles. You know, that lovely "urrrrrnnnnnnnurrghhhhhh!" sound she makes when she whacks the ball? I like to do that when doing my gym thang. It cracks me up, and it’s always easier to work out if you’re having a laugh. You don’t notice the glorious ache of your limbs so much. Plus it gets up the nose of the serious gym junkies, who prance around wearing tiny shorts and air of superiority, like they’ve got a ruler lodged firmly up their arse.
Just don’t grunt too loud, otherwise you’ll look like a real dickhead.
Last night I dreamed of the Weight Watchers scale. I really do look forward to my weigh-ins, unless I know I’ve had a crap week. But most Monday’s I am jittery all day, coz I am just so damn keen to get on that scale. This week I must be keener than usual, coz last night I dreamed I sprinted into the WW class (okay, more of a gallumph than a sprint) and knocked over all the people obediently waiting in line and declared that I MUST be weighed right now. I barged the weigh-lady out of the way and lined up the weight then hopped on. The bar thingy went down with a BANG, that nice decisive sound when you KNOW you’ve had a good week. So I started moving the slidey thing down to get it to balance. But then weigh-lady hopped up and started fiddling with it, and it started swaying wildly.
"DON’T TOUCH THAT SCALE, WOMAN! I CAN DO IT MYSELLLLLLLLLLF!" I was screaming. But she persisted and I woke up ranting and raving and not knowing what the hell I’d lost.
Wonder if that’s a good or bad omen for tonight? Or perhaps a subconscious memo: Miss Dietgirl, You Are Obsessing Too Much.