Before: 
The Gym is a magical place where dreams come true and wishes are granted. Well, sorta. Y'all know the routine. Dig out that oversized grey t-shirt that you one day plan to cut up and turn into some kind of incredible fashion statement. Dig out those not quite hotpants not quite surfer shorts shorts. Those Asics runners which make your feet look like large marine creatures. You scrape back your hair into the least flattering way possible.
It all sounds quite horrific.
But somehow, in a very strange and overpowering way, you feel, well, let's not dodge around the issue, SEXY.
...Until you're standing like a dope at the door to the stairs up to this magical land cause the people on the desk forgot to give you the code.
But sure hey. Life isn't easy.
Minor obstacle overcome, it's time to hit the bike. After much jiggling around with the seat (and your arse) you manage 4.67K around that island track before getting bored of your POWERGYMTUNES playlist (includes The Prodigy and Fat Boy Slim. Duh).
Then to the cross trainer, via a scrawny 15-year-old bench pressing 2kg when he thinks you're looking. It may be tempting, but don't stare - it's rude. Also not really worth it.
Then the cross trainer. Sure there's nowt wrong with that. You're there powering along, level 7, arms going like crazy. All well and good until you glance into the midget polish beast beside you's screen and he's on level 37.
You want to run a bit, but you know deep down that you'll be longing to burst into an impromptu baywatch moment. So you bury your heart's greatest desires and shuffle over to the water dispenser to drown your sorrows. Trying to figure out which tap is super cold and which is normal cold will usually take your mind off things, or so I find.
After:
**Results may vary
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