Grim Gym Sins

When my brother joined the gym way back when, my mother threw such a fit it was unbelievable. She gave him hell for the fact that it was expensive, a waste of money and time, the supplements were expensive and that he could injure himself, yadda yadda yadda. Old folk and their paranoia. It didn’t end there either. She told the universe about it, kicking and screaming. My brother didn’t speak to her for months. It’s not one of those things that “scarred me for life”. More like, we’ll know better never to tell her if we ever joined the gym ourselves.

I can totally understand my mother’s total disapproval of the gym. Back in the day – pre-Merdeka, post Japanese Occupation, Malaysia was not unlike a jakun teenager from the kampung, trying to adjust to the big city life. We were largely (and hey, we still are!) an agri-centric nation. Food was scarce, work was laborious and people just moved a lot more. In fact, the surroundings were just one, big monolith gym. The only people who did pump some iron were those who made a living out of it. But what was gym in those days but a few crowbars capped with iron donuts, a coupla benches padded with sponge and uber-retro fabric and some makeshift tools the creative owner made in his backyard. None of those “Platinum Membership” gimmicks, no sirree.

But I shan’t negate this whole idea because I just signed up with a gym myself – complete with a Personal Trainer, mind you! For the record, this has got to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I mean – look at me – all of 34 years of age, 20 kilos overweight, drained out by the ravages of advertising (yes, that infamous vampirical industry that sucks the life outta ya…), never exercised a day in my life. At some point in our lives, we’ve just got to own up to regressing metabolic rates and unkind gravitational pulls in our body. No matter how carefully you watch what you eat, the food won’t go anywhere anytime soon but lay there in your belly, hips, thighs and just about anywhere else. Stop laying the blame on water retention during periods because it’s been 3 weeks since the last drop. Stop thinking it’s your gastric problem and that you HAVE to eat so you don’t get heartburn. Trust me – all of these will disappear once you start exercising. (Honestly, I don’t believe I’m writing this…)

I still get the heebie-jeebies everytime I go to the gym for my session. My trainer is merciless and I end up nauseous and bunched up in the shower afterwards. I don’t even have the energy to soap myself. But I wake up the next morning and look at my taut tummy in the mirror reflection, and it’s all worth it. I still have a looooonnnggg way to go, my trainer tells me, but it’s a journey I’m willing to take. I don’t want to end up being 50, obese with under-developed muscles and immobile. In short, I don’t want to be my mother. Looking to the future, being retired should be the best time of one’s life to finally enjoy the fruits of one’s labour. It’s no use if you’re going to spend it hobbling with a walking stick, huffing every 15 minutes and making a nuisance of yourself to the people around you. (Of course I’m quick to the defense to say that I love my mother and I’d do anything for her without complaint, willingly with all my heart.)

I’m proud to say that for the first time in my life, I’m watching my diet with such ferocity and I don’t even crave the sinful foods that I used to eat mindlessly. I have watchdogs in the form of my brother and my lahling soulmate Verne who help me along with my food intake, and who cheer me on relentlessly. I feel healthier. I can do more things without breaking into sweat so easily. You know I didn’t know that one of the things I lacked was body balance. My trainer puts me through painful balancing regimes that make me look like Ballerina Hippo on crack. He says it’s to strengthen my lower back. Amazingly, that affects everything! I can actually run across the street without tripping over my own feet haha!

My advice to you is to do something about your health if you’re overweight and don’t feel too fantastic about yourself. But if you feel perfectly happy with yourself, then it’s OK. But what is “feeling perfectly happy”? An alternative reality you created so that you could fit right in to that comfort zone you created for yourself? I fess that I did do such a thing. I’m no beauty queen, but I’m no Ernest Borgnine either, and I do have my fair share of ‘interested parties’. For the longest time, I sought solace in that fact and repeatedly told myself that I was made for those who liked ‘em plump, and that if they had a problem with my being fat, then they weren’t meant for me. But everyday I look at my tyres, and I feel so unsexy. How could anyone love my body if I didn’t do so myself?

Armed with that, I resolved to love it. But before I could, I had to make it into something I could love. And so I did. I hope that everytime I read this entry, it would inspire me to continue, to love the pain and not find an excuse not to go. I hope that I will take this as a challenge to be something I have never been before. I have been a workaholic, I have been a survivor, I have resurrected from many a flame, I have fought and thrived. But I have never won the battle with mine own body.

I’d like to see me win this one major reality contest. If you do too, then drop me a shout out. The louder the cheers, the harder I’ll work.