I did it. I lied about where and I lied about when, but I did it.

Feeling that I should at least show willing, I didn’t take my cigarettes – (I also didn’t take water which was a serious oversight) - but turned up, 10 minutes early no less, and participated in my one hour personal training session.

Ok, I actually only lasted 45 minutes and 6 of them were spent sitting in the mud with my head between my knees, trying not to puke and/or pass out, but I did it! And you know what? It wasn’t half bad!

I mean, it was incredibly painful, I was very aware of the location of my lungs, and any physiologically guaranteed muscle potential has been dragged screaming to the forefront of my conciousness, but *whispers* I’m actually considering doing it again.

I fully expected Ben to get his own back on my vituperous comments but he was the consumate professional; encouraging, challenging and alert to my delicate physical state. (Given that I signed a waiver absolving him of legal responsibility for any injury I think it was the disposal of my corpse that worried him most when I turned an intresting shade of blue).

I know that it could be the adrenaline talking, or the distant dream of being able to fit into the large part of my wardrobe that is kept because “it was too damn expensive just to bin because I can’t fit my calf in it, let alone both legs and my bum”, but I keep thinking that the money and pain expended for an hour of Ben’s ministrations every week would be more than compensated by my expanded sartorial options.

I always, in a typically vague, vegatative way, wanted to be one of those people who went for a run to think, or escape the day’s stresses, or…well, I still find it hard to imagine enjoyment, but we’ll assume that it is possible because I have this delicate little fantasy involving designer jeans, high heels and a Faith-like, kick-ass, physical capability (not Buffy – those red leather trews were sooo Brit’ny); if only I could reconcile that with junk food, gin and the pack-a-day that currently gets me out of bed, my life would be complete.

My mental anguish at this post-twenties crisis aside, if you have the urge but not the willpower I can highly recommend (Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this) contacting Ben@glasgowfit.co.uk.

Seriously. If it didn’t involve abandoning the sarcastic, cynical, couch-potato lifestyle that I hold so dear…

www.glasgowfit.co.uk

It is absolutely beautiful today.

The sun is shining and a light breeze adds to my enjoyment of such a clement morning.

I also have the afternoon off, so I apologise in advance for the unpredicted yet inevitable rainstorm…

I have accidentally agreed to be personal-trainered. God knows what I was thinking. You may remember my last attempt at fitness (it didn’t end well) and I have never been less than pithy about the idea of expending unneccessary energy. (Indeed, if I’m going to get hot and sweaty I can think of much more enjoyable ways to do it…*)

But Ben – personal trainer by trade – views this as a challenge. Ben is obviously a glutton for punishment. Ben has offered one hour of tailored training for free, perhaps under the very mistaken impression that leaping around the park, vomitting copiously whilst swinging a kettle bell will encourage me to engage his professional services on a regular basis.

Not a chance.

I may have fallen for “I betchya ya can’t” but I draw the line at voluntarily enduring such pain every Tuesday. And paying for the dubious privilege.

On the other hand I do believe in sharing such experiences with those less fortunate, so when Hattie found the idea of me exercising High-larious and threatened to start a Twitter account (intending, I think, to follow me ’round during the Hour of Doom, noting skin colour (green), intervals without obscenity (rare) and incidence of puking (with clockwork regularity) I had an idea; as she thought it was soooooo funny I suggested she dust off her tennies and join me.

Either that or start looking for a new job.

She doesn’t seem particularly keen, but I feel it will be a bonding experience for us both.

We’re meeting at 6.

Can’t wait.

*sunbathing, you gutter-minded fools. Or sitting in a beer garden in a heatwave.