Carol’s Column

Beating the gym-workout syndrome

For a birthday present, my husband gave me a course at the new Old Ed’s Health and Racquet Club. "He's trying to tell you something," said my good friend Betty.

"So, you think I'm fat and unattractive," I taxed him when he arrived home from work.

"What?" he said.

"You think I'm an unhealthy slob and that's why you gave me a gym course for a birthday present."

He rolled his eyes. "I gave you a gym course because I know you're an Upwardly Mobile Mother and I thought you'd enjoy it."

This happened in December last year. Well, Old Ed's only opened at the end of June and somehow I hadn't got around to using my birthday present. Until last Saturday. Admittedly, I was a little apprehensive when I saw all those glowing, healthy-looking people.

The buzz was tremendous. Wherever you looked there were people doing different things on machines, with great concentration.

I sat upon an electronic bicycle and gazed at the keyboard. "It's easy," puffed the guy beside me. "Push start, then set your programme."

Which was all well and good except that I'd left my spectacles in the changeroom and couldn't read the keyboard. I retrieved them and attacked the bicycle-machine once again, eventually panting with the best of them.

"You simply must do the circuit," someone said, which is why I found myself doing different things with an assortment of equipment. I pushed and pulled and it was only when I was half-way through the circuit that I realised I could adjust the weights and that it wasn't necessary to do everything with a 10 kg load.

Naturally, things can be confusing if you've never done them before. "Ask one of the young men in white tracksuits," said someone. I looked but all the young men in white tracksuits were preoccupied.

Vigorous attack

My grandmother, the Turkish belly dancer from Stellenbosch, always said: "Attack as if you mean it," and so I exercised with vigour.

However, quite the most enjoyable experience was the steam bath in which a bevy of women sat and discussed everything from in-grown toe-nails to Jani Allan.

I left the gym shining like a Kruger Rand.

On Sunday my stomach was a little sore. By Wednesday I could hardly move. "You’re stiff," chortled my spouse. "It’s natural because you’re unfit. Skip gym for a few days."

Skip gym? "You're mad," I said as he lifted me into standing position. "Do you really think I'll ever go back again?"

On Thursday I took my stomach to the doctor, who poked and prodded as doctors always do. "Hmm, perhaps you've strained or pulled a muscle, perhaps something's ruptured, perhaps it's a hernia, hmmm." Then: "Let's give it a few days," he said. "Meanwhile, go and buy yourself a corset. It'll ease the pain."

My grandmother, the Turkish belly dancer from Stellenbosch, used to wear corsets; that was in latter days when her belly became uncontrollable.

The shop assistant in the lingerie department was bemused. "But Merrem doesn't need no corset," she hooted with laughter.

I explained my problem and she found the stiffest, tightest, most confining garment. A straight-jacket. "Jus' roll it on and you'll look like Marilyn Monroe," she giggled.

It was a miracle. The pain almost disappeared, as did half my stomach.

I arrived home at the same time as my husband. "Hell, you look good," he smiled. "

A little bit of exercise has turned you into a new-woman."

A little bit of exercise? I have just invested in six more corsets, one for each day of the week. Eat your heart out Jane Fonda.

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