Health and fitness has become our new religion, and like any good religion it is shoved down our throats at every turn.

It is literally everywhere. It’s all over the usual mediums of television, print and social media; but now it’s even found up in our faces in our daily lives. You can no longer walk more than six blocks without passing a gym, or do your groceries without encountering a horde of Lycra-clad, quinoa-devouring, protein shake-toting gym junkies. As well as the imposters- by which I mean those whose compression leggings see physical exertion only when their fleshy owner is trying to put them on. More fashionable than a girdle I suppose.

I work in a supermarket neighboured by at least three gyms, and I reckon I’ve seen it all. Young blokes in muscle tops which show off their steroid induced back-ne, gym bunnies in booty shorts and crop tops which are dangerously close to inappropriate, overweight slobs in personalised CrossFit hoodies (I’m guessing they’re the admin/waterboys), plus all the others who think it’s perfectly OK to walk around reeking of sweat and body odour as they couldn’t be bothered to change out of their soiled gym clothes. Because how else would people know they worked out, right? Oh, and the senior gentlemen who must all shop at the same store which only sells shorts whose length barely covers their sagging scrotums. I feel sorry for whoever is on the treadmill behind those fellas.

I realise I sound a touch judgemental, but I would never say anything to anyone to hurt them. And I truly do applaud anyone who is out there to better themselves. Except for the posers. Fuck those guys. I’m just here to poke fun harmlessly and get a few laughs.

I never thought I would be one of those people. Until I started my job stocking shelves at a supermarket. Unless you’ve had the pleasure, you have no idea how physically demanding it is. And I had no idea how unfit I was! After a few minor injuries I finally realised I needed to do something about it.

So I joined a gym.

I joined a gym.

I, who would so ruthlessly taunt people who shopped in their gym clothes with a trolley full of kale and rice cakes; I, who would proclaim money spent on gym memberships to be money squandered; I, who believed my time was better spent watching movies on my laptop in bed with a 6 pack; had joined a gym.

And I was hooked.

It took hardly any time at all to start seeing results- which motivated me further, and having to pass my gym on my way home from work made it harder to make excuses not to go. Most importantly for me was being able to use my gym 24/7. I was quite overweight and unfit at the time, but I was much less intimidated when there were only one or two others working out at the same time as me.

In the space of a few months I had lost almost 15kgs, and more importantly, I was strawwwng. The boxes I struggled to lift before were easily handled, I could carry several things at once, I was no longer sore and had far more energy. I was looking good and feeling great! I even added ‘gym’ into my interest on my online dating profiles.

This opened up a whole new kettle of salmon pappardelle.

From day one, as soon as guys spoke to me and found out that I actually did go the gym, and I actually did do weights, they found their new mission from god- to tell me exactly how they thought I should work out. I’m talking anywhere from dietary advice, to supplement suggestions, to squatting tips.

At first I was interested; I mean, it was all new to me and I appreciated the advice. But then the advice started coming at me thick and fast, and most worryingly- unwanted. I had a training regime that I was happy with, but relative strangers would take it upon themselves to disagree and argue and try to sell me their own personal method of training. It got to a point where I would have to delete them. I figure unless I am hiring you as my personal trainer, nutritionist or weight loss consultant KEEP YOUR EFFING OPINIONS TO YOURSELF!!

Then you get the comments like “we could do some cardio together” – lame sex euphemism, “I’ve got something you can squat on” – another lame sex euphemism, or “let’s do it in the change room” – not a euphemism, but still lame.

And is it just me, or does a guy’s TDF (Total Douche Factor) rise in accordance to the size of his biceps? This also appears to be coupled with a similar, concurrent decline of mental agility.

But again, I’m being a little mean and I am generalising. But still….

So there we have it – The story of how Flabby Gabby became the super ripped and buff Not So Flabby and Slightly More Fit Gabby, and how she battled her way through an onslaught of opinionated, knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing gym rats.

So until next time,

Happy Lunging. Gabrielle xox