I can swear on my copy of Devil Wears Prada and my collection of six seasons worth of SATC that us fashionistas in the business have to keep a particular dress size unless you are either royalty or your mother is of the Anna Wintour of the calibre then the rule need not apply to you.
The majority of my colleagues at work survive on a lettuce leaf and wong-tong soup, knowing that their consolation for surviving on such meagre helpings is that they will continue to look fabulous in their DVF dresses or Chanel jackets.
It was because of this “pressure” to maintain “perfection” that I found myself up at the crack of dawn- 5.30am- so I can get ready to head to gym before work. Dressed in a pair of cute grey shorts and a tight forest green t shirt that I had picked up from Topshop a few weeks earlier, I blew the dust of my never worn trainers and put them on. With a Johnny Loves Rosie bag in hand I was of to the gym in the city near my work.
As I travelled by tube at 6.30am I was amazed to find the world was wide awake and raring to go. Sunglasses at hand I tried to look ultra cool as the suited and booted stared at my short shorts and my AM latte. Once I arrived in the city I exited the tube station at Canon Street with a herd of city folk who were also headed to the gym. We towards the 5* gym and I was amazed to find myself with a bounce of excitement at my determination to get fit but little did I know what lay ahead.
Any who as I made my way in (I have a friend who works there so no membership fees galore to worry about). Once in I tried to locate the ladies locker rooms and instead accidently found myself staring at several men in different states of dress before I noticed I had entered the gentleman’s locker room. Stuttering I apologised profusely whilst giving them all a sly once over as I slowly exited. Finding the ladies locker room I locked up my gym bag and went to the Pump Attack class.
Entering the massive studio I found myself surrounded by women in baggy t-shirts- probably hiding their flabby tummies so I thought- and men who seemed to love Lycra. As the instructor bounded in with the kind of energy that is abnormal at 7.15 am, the class began.
I was happy to find myself leading the class, proud of the fact that I was able to keep up. 10 minutes into the work out I was wheezing and the women who I assumed where fatties with their baggy tickets had removed the t-shirts to reveal sports bras, Lycra shorts, taut tummies and tight butts, damn just when I thought I was the thinnest. I knew then that giving up could not be an option.
Five minutes later my wheezing had turned in to excruciating pain in my chest, I grabbed quickly for my volvic sports bottle- big mistake. That gulp felt fatal and it made me feel worse; I could suddenly feel my legs wanting to buckle- I continued. Twenty minutes into the hour work out I had reached my limit, the instructor's perky voice and the fat guy next to me who seemed determined to show me up soon enough broke me. Damn him I thought as I sneaked out with my bottle in my hand and my head lowered in shame, the fat lady had sung I had come to the end of my gym days just as they had started. I just hope that the fat lady is not me, because surely I had been tortured enough.
So my question still stands, when will themadness stop? Does any size beyond 10 really big. I think not and no amount of promises of tight butts and abs could ever tempt me to torture myself like that again.I think I will just stick to my wong-tong soup and lettuce leaf to keep trim, ok maybe I will add a few crutons- I mean why not spoil myself right?
Image courtesy of- www.cartoonstock.com
By Champagnista M
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