Month: March 2012

The gym gentry and their fitness regime

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I’m sure I’m not alone in saying I don’t find exercising easy. It usually involves a couple of long hours of heated discussion beforehand between the fitness fanatic I long to be and the lazy git I love to be.

On the days I actually manage to begrudgingly drag myself onto the treadmill, I always find it just a little deflating when I walk into the gym to find muscle-flexing, Lululemon-clad fitness fanatics as far as the eye can see.

Being a gym, though, it’s a rare day that you see anything other than that.

That’s why it was an absolute pleasure to walk into the gym yesterday morning to find Arthur and Rosemary working out in quite unorthodox attire.

Arthur was clad in denim jeans, held in place by a snazzy pair of braces, and finished off with a pair of black shoes that displayed all the hallmarks of Hush Puppies’ sensible design. I can only assume that he’d decided, quite wisely I think, to kill two birds with one stone by exercising in the outfit he’d planned on wearing to lunch afterwards.

Rosemary was looking just as smart in a lovely blue and white floral frock accompanied by equally sturdy footwear.

How did I know their names were Arthur and Rosemary, you might ask? They were wearing name tags, of course. I’m not sure why, but it made me smile at a time when I usually struggle to do anything but grimace.

It was the best workout I’ve had in a long time. Watching Arthur, Rosemary and their posse of name tag-wearing buddies wander around the equipment enjoying a bike ride, or a stroll on the treadmill, before retreating to the lounge area for a cuppa and a biscuit was the most refreshing thing I’ve seen in a long time. Even after enduring a bit of sledging from one distinguished gentleman who thought my sister-in-law and I weren’t walking fast enough.

That’s what a workout should be like.

The car journey and its travel companion

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When you’re in the midst of a seven hour car trip, it’s never long before you pass a road sign warning, “caution: monotony ahead”. I find it’s usually around the four hour mark when the many forms of entertainment – books, Sudoko puzzles, iPads, games of eye-spy – you packed as a travel companion just aren’t that interesting anymore.

It’s at this point that anything able to stop the rot of boredom setting in is welcomed.

On a recent return trip to Sydney in my trusty little car, I saw something that did just that. There I was, dutifully obeying the speed limit, when a silver Subaru came hurtling past me. From my righteous position at the helm of an obedient motor vehicle, I cast a disapproving look across at the driver. That’s when I noticed it. The first three letters of their number plate were A.O.K.

I’ll tell you, that car could have been driving on two wheels through a tunnel of fire and I would’ve forgiven it, just for its number plate. For the next little while my car just chewed up the road and spat it out as I spent my time thinking of the many situations a number plate like A.O.K could assist with; 

“Hello madam, we’re conducting random drink driving breath tests today, please breath into the machine,” the professional police officer would ask. To which I’d reply with a smile, “no thanks, officer, I’m A-OK.”

“Wash your windscreen?” the cleaning technician positioned at a set of inner city traffic lights with a water bottle filled with dishwashing liquid would ask gruffly. “No thanks, I’m A-OK,” I would offer with my trademark smile.

They’re just so versatile. The owner of that silver Subaru must’ve been happily A-OK the day they walked out of the registry office with those number plates in their hot little hands.