Sometime it seems that gyms are like foreign countries, with everyone speaking a strange language, and as if you need a passport to get in. Despite working out quite regularly, and being genuinely interested in fitness and exercise motivation, I don’t feel like I belong in this world. Even though I do it myself, I still think there’s something strange about people who wear lycra, drink bottled water, and pick up heavy objects that don’t really need to be moved. It’s as illogical as moving furniture for fun: ‘Just leave it there, for Pete’s sake, it looks fine’.
But like all good tourists, I’m trying to blend in with the locals. I’m taking an interest, wearing bright colours, and trying to stammer out of few phrases in the local lingo. After a few months of perusing fitness blogs, and wondering what fitspo was, I finally googled it, and was quite surprised by the result. I was under the impression that fitspiration was something to do with fit people’s sweat. (It does sound like perspiration).
Of course, since my fitness blog reading hobby started, I’ve been happy to stumble across the great Maria Kang ‘fat-shaming or fitspiration’ debate. (Here’s a sympathetic voice and a critical view). When I first saw this image, I assumed it was an older sister with her three younger siblings. Then I read the caption and slowly the lights went on. ‘What’s my excuse for what?’ I wondered. Gradually, with the excruciating slowness of ice plates converging, the purpose of the image became clear. ‘Well’ I thought, ‘what a pretty woman. But that’s her journey, not mine’. I’ve since, rather meanly, taken to referring to the image as Maria Kangaroo, just because of her large eyes and alert expression.
I’ve recently been along to a couple of Boot Camp classes. My local gym runs them on the beach volleyball courts, so the experience has changed my relationship with sand. Sand used to conjour up happy thoughts of family holidays by the beach, Reef coconut tanning oil and lazy days in the sun. Not anymore. As one woman said, as we crawled through the sand, butts high, from one end of the volleyball court to the other, ‘this must be the exfoliation stage of the process’. ‘I’ll be doing the mud mask by the end’ I replied.
Similarly, the word ‘dip’ used to make me feel quite perky. ‘French onion or avocado?’ I’d muse, ‘both equally good’. But sadly my Boot Camp instructor, a guy who looks like he’s been chewed up and spat out by a sabre-toothed tiger, thinks dips are just great, and I don’t mean the cheese and bikkie kind. ‘Dips!’ he howls, as our exhausted triceps quiver, muscle fibres now the texture of melted parmesan. ‘Biscuits!’ I feel like screaming back.
(Photo courtesy of mamacino)
Helen Hopcroft: an artist's life 