What won’t make you stronger will kill you

Talk about a cosmic hint. Spurred on by the fact that the fabulous satin dress I bought for Friday night’s function is a tad on the I-can’t-breathe-otherwise-the-seams-will-tear tight side, I decided to go to the gym this morning (yes, completely irrational, I know). Coupled with the fact that I haven’t been in ages, I feel a cold coming on, so I foresaw a bit of strain. What I didn’t foresee was just how much.

After hacking around on the steppy machine and doing a brief circuit, I decided I’d brave the treadmill. In my fitter moments, I’m quite a runner, but today I got on, started at 8.5 km/h, and got an instant cramp. Fok voort, I told myself – this session is costing me R289 (I’m unlikely to go again this month after the experience), or more likely R1,189 if I’m being honest with myself (haven’t gone since January, you see. I blame my broken toe, of course). I even convinced myself to turn the speed up to 10 km/h, and my red face turned purple, my wheezing concurrently turning to spluttering. Still, there were people around, so to save (my purple) face, I continued. After twenty painful minutes, I climbed off – chin in the air – and virtually crawled to the showers. Still spluttering in the shower, I accidentally got water in my mouth, swallowed it incorrectly and starting coughing so violently the woman in the shower next to me came over to see if I was okay. (I wasn’t). Then, as though fate hadn’t bitch-slapped me enough this morning, I dropped my sample of very expensive shampoo down the fucking drain. F@%^*#!!!

But the coup d’etat came when I emerged from the shower to change into my work clothes. I left my bra at home. And there was no chance in hell that I’d put on the sweaty gym bra instead. So, fed up with the morning’s events, I decided fuck that, I’m not going to make my day better by returning home to retrieve the underwear, I’m just going to work hanging free.

Thus there will be no bounce in my step today, for two reasons.