Unhealthy exercise

Something struck me very hard yesterday evening as I made one of my rare and extremely futile visits to the gym - and no, it wasn't the twang of an over-stretched sports bra. (Who engineers these demonic little bits of lycra and have they ever tried a) getting into one and b) getting out of one! Honestly - it takes me a full gym session just to capture everything, lassoo it into place and get my nipples properly aligned. Then, 60 trussed up and sweaty minutes later I'm meant to get the damn thing off. Inevitably, the sheer joy of being released from its burden means it inevitably rolls up into an excrutiatingly tight band of hot elastic that clamps itself just above my boobs - too high to reach at the back and too tight to peel off the the front. There I stand in full view of all the taught, slim Godalming gym goddesses, bent over double, bosoms akimbo, trying to inch it over my shoulders. Oooh, the indignity of it all.)

No, what struck me very hard was the realisation that I have been coming to the gym for at least four years now and yet have not managed to shed a single pound. I blame it on my gym-buddy (GB). We're both around the same age - well actually she's a few years younger than me. And we're both around the same size, ie around a stone bigger than we'd like to be. We're also both of the same mind - that the gym is a necessary evil and we'd both much rather be nattering over a bottle of Pinot. Still, twice a week (unless one of us can conjour up a believable excuse for not going) we meet at Fitness First (which should be re-named Wallet First) and go through the same old routine of cross-trainer, sit-ups and weights. We've thought about doing the classes - but one look through the steamed up studio mirror at all the lithe leggy beauties going through their advanced aerobics routine is enough to put off any crone. We did go through a lame attempt at Dancercise around 2006, but the fight to get into the back row nearly finished us off, let alone trying to keep up with the reverse box step! And as for the grapevine - the memory of getting carried away and hitting the studio wall full smack will haunt me for the rest of my days. We've also thought about getting a personal trainer, but honestly I've seen them in action and they are sadists!

So the same old route it is, and 45 perspiration-laden minutes later we're both puce and puffed out, in need of a lie-down and a piece of cake. But amazingly, a quick spray of Impulse later and we're off, weaving our way through the muscle-bound macho hunks trying to outdo each other on the power plate (and that's only the women) and making a heroic break for freedom and the comforting plink plink fizz of a double G&T in the bar downstairs. There we sit, bemoaning our big bellies and debating the merits and pitfalls of liposuction.

My GB is totally against lipo, or any form of surgical intervention. I however am seriously considering it. "Think of the pain", says she. "They cut you, stick a tube in then have to really pummel you to break down the fat." "Think of the risks." she adds "What if it all goes wrong - what if they take too much from one place and you end up lop-sided?"

She's right of course, but all I can think of is that wonderful moment when I look in the changing room mirror and see my size 10-12 self looking back at me, in the tightest, skimpiest dress I can get away with. And, I assure myself, if I look good in my gym clothes I'm far more likely to go to the gym!