It was a simple plan. Go to the gym, work out, come home and black out…It backfired….
***Go to the gym***
I figured I didn’t have to dress to impress, I mean, its the bloody gym. Why on earth should I have to. Plus I’m a guy. We really don’t care…Most importantly, I stay in some place called KABALAGALA. Does that sound like the kind of place that inspires someone to dress to the nines? No? Didn’t think so. Its so bad, even the sluts can’t be bothered to look good. They still get customers so I guess no one really cares about impressions in this joint.
I did sandals and Jeans. In my haste…no,I’d be lying. I didn’t carry a tracksuit coz somehow I figured I could work out in Jeans…
This is when it went wrong. I paid up to the lady at the counter/ reception thingy and endured her futile attempts at pronouncing the word discounts; “everytime you want disacounts”
She said the instructor would be with us shortly.We waited for a while before thinkin to ourselves, screw it. This dude is not coming. And so we began to use the machines as we pleased. It was all going smoothly until this finally turned up. I’ll call him Tha Fruitty-nator. Kinda like the Terminator, but fruity…
“Who told you to use these machines? Who,who…who?” He spat the words out like they were that meal I had that night…
I politely told him that I tried to wait for him to turn up, but patient though I may be, asking me to wait till next Tuesday for his attention was a stretch…
“Tuesday? What’s happening on Tuesday? and what stretchmarks… Okay, now get on that machine”
Dude…I’m already on it…
” I didn’t ask you, did I? Now get off that machine and come here…”
So I followed his instructions, coz that’s what happens in the gym. You follow a set of instructions with the belief that you will either lose weight or bulk up…or derive some bizarre sexual satisfaction (it was put forward by some Psych. Lecturer back at the university…)
“Okay, now get on that machine!” He barked.
So back I went. And expressed some concern over his order to give him TWENTY…twenty what the last time someone asked for twenty, it was this chic at Al Zawadi and even then I played dumb.
Yeah, sure, making me wait for close to two hours wasn’t enough…
We kept on with this charade, with him barking at me asking for twenty this and twenty that until six O’clock…then he stepped out oh so daintily out of his itty-bitty closet…It was time for some aerobics…and he was in the zone…yeah I know….you don’t just get in the zone, the zone finds you. Details….
I don’t know about you, but there’s no way I’m going to feel amped listening to a sped up East African song…Oh listen to that…its that jam from years past, but why does it sound different? Why is the artiste rushing so that it sounds like, “Ninannokinikiskiahiimuziki…” I mean, what the hell?
If you are going to get people all psyched, play that I LIKE TO Move it song from Madagascar. Hey, I think I’ll play that now. That’s a jam right there…is it in English? I think they just said Dem like to move it..
So anywho, the instructor gets really psyched and is screaming out, “1…2…3…3…2…3…two more….one…2…1 more” before you know it, you’ve done like two hundred and thrity one bits of exercise that see you move back and forth between some board and pulling off some classic 70’s dance moves.
This has gone on for quite a bit, and now I must..move it.