335.

How many days until I can refuse to call myself an adult

There’s a sloth named Gavin that I’ve been carrying on my back for the last few years. It wasn’t as if he didn’t give me enough time to run away. He just slowly crawled up my body and hangs off my shoulders now. In a way, the company is reassuring. But it’s exhausting trying to go through life with my hairy lumpy passenger.
 
I guess by starting this platform for my writing, I’ve asked Gavin to sit on the chair for a while. It’s all right because I just bought a new 3-piece set. See! I am a grown up now.
 
I am actively taking control of my life by being active. This means going to the gym. Don’t worry, this is not going to turn into an ‘inspirational’ post about how to turn your life around by being healthy. Yes, do that if you want. But also, being active is as much about power as it is about looking your best.
 
The most hilarious thing is that I actually like exercise, as much as I joke about why I hate it. I hate how seriously people take it. We all look ridiculous moving our bodies in front of mirrors to heinously aggressive music. Let’s laugh, or at least smile guys. Why are we all dressed in some black gym uniform; an army for Nike and Lulu Lemon? The best thing about exercise is that it forces you to actually be in your body and not overthink all of everything. Oh, what a terrible contradiction there is when gym culture also tells us not to be comfortable in that body.
 
I am trying all the classes just in case I dismissed things out of pigheadedness. The lead me to the strange and arduous word of body attack. It is not a misnomer. There was an actual attack on my body. I thought I might throw up. Three times. Beautiful lithe blondes with their hair tightly braided paraded star hands over my limp body. Their power obviously lies in those braids. How else can people remain upright under that much force? I will test this theory by arming myself with two neat braids the next time I bring myself to masochism. Watch this space.
 
Important lesion: do not wear fisherman’s pants to classes at the gym. They were made for tourists eating space cake and drinking Chang, i.e. when they’re beside a beach and won’t have to stretch themselves one iota. They can’t maintain basic integrity thus leading you to misplace yours. Many things crossed my mind when I heard the stagnated but deliberate sound of my pants tearing. What to do when you’ve hedge your bets and your hedged in? Leaving would draw attention to what I assume was a gapping hole that exposed my neither regions, this, therefore, was not an option. During the crazed aerobics I tried to suss the extent of the gap but, alas, that also would draw far too much attention to the area. I settled with simple blind faith. Black undies, grey/black pants… maybe no one would notice. And no one in my class did. Hindsight tells me that this was more because of most of them using up all of their energy following the instructors fast pace, maintaining breathing—in an attempt to hold off a heart attack, and trying not to projectile vomit, rather than how slight my indecency was. I know this by examining the results myself in the changeroom afterwards but also because the following class, with nothing to distract them, individually—in an excruciatingly drawn out process—bared it to me with the amused expressions on their faces.
 
Now, I know I said we need to laugh more at the gym, this wasn’t what I meant. I get the joke of it. I tell you this now because I get the joke. But these braided blondes dance around in short shorts and sports bras and my undies—which remain mostly hidden—are the same size as these ‘shorts’. I would wear those ‘shorts’ to the gym. This isn’t about me shaming them. But I cover them up, then accidentally expose them… it’s hilarious. And it is, but why?