The public shaming of Mrs D (well, in the gym)
I have a confession: I’m Mrs Dubai – and I joined a gym.
I’ll just wait for you get up off the floor where you fell in shock that your sauvignon blanc-loving exercise-phobe of a blogger is actually considering Lycra… (actually, no Lycra is involved: that would be too cruel).
I do appreciate that I haven’t set foot in a gym since 2001 (seriously) but there comes a point in a 40-something woman’s life when she looks at the wobbly thighs and has to decide: is this it? Am I going to slide into my late 40s in loose-fit M&S slacks, or am I going to continue buying bikinis?
So I decided to make friends with the cross-trainer (it’s a machine, DH); to acquaint myself with the treadmill, the rowing machine and the stair-climber. I decided to start doing weights. And you know what? It’s going well.
I credit my success in the gym – and by “success” I mean the fact that I’ve actually been four times – to the system of public-shaming that the gym utilises.
They give you a heart-rate monitor and, should you choose to register it, whenever you wear it in the vicinity of the gym, your exercise stats are displayed on public screens for all to snigger at.
Under your name, it tells the entire population of the gym what your heart rate is, how many calories you’ve burned and, crucially, how much effort you’re putting in so they’ll know – they’ll know! – if you’re just strolling gently along reading the Daily Mail on your iPhone or actually giving the cross-trainer some serious wellie.
Furthermore, I think there’s a shame – no, definitely there’s a public shame – in leaving the cardio area until you’ve burned at least eight fingers’ worth of Kit-Kat calories….
You didn’t hear this from me but, being quite a competitive person who likes to exercise alone, I think I could just have found the motivation I need to turn that 5kg of extra body fat into 5kg of muscle… I’ll keep you posted.