Rex was very proud of his rock hard abs
“We rocking it contagious, monkey business outrageous
Just confess, your girl admits that we da sh*t” – Black Eyed Peas, Pump It!
There’s no better way to get over a broken heart than pumping iron. Seriously folks, feeling the burn fills all the criteria for a healing experience. It’s distracting and time consuming, gets the endorphins buzzing round your body and hones and tones all the places that you’ve let go to flab in the fallow relationship time.
So it was with great joy that I conned a local supergym (actually called California WOW!) into giving me a free weekly pass for my last week in Saigon. I headed straight for the Body Pump class – an old favourite that I attended during my gym bunny period – and was delighted to find out that it was exactly the same as the one in London. In every detail, down to the appalling pop-rap excuse for a sound track.
Many people would find this globalisation of exercise routines unsettling, or scary. Armies of people worldwide mobilising in pursuit of hot abs. But I find it ridiculously comforting, being able to slip into an old familiar routine at an uncertain time.
The teacher, true to gym class form is a diminutive Nazi who wears what appears to be black, pleather fetish gear. She struts her stuff with all the ferocity of a Doberman, barking out indecipherable orders through her headset. I will admit to being ever so slightly scared of her. Particularly after she made a special effort to learn my name, which I thought was very friendly, until I realised it was so she could shout at me mid-class singling me out to demand I put more weight on my bar. Cringe.
But apart from the ritual humiliation (and the screaming muscle pain) I have come out of my second pump class of the week feeling healthier, happier, calmer and stronger. High on endorphins and ready to face another day. God bless diminutive gym Nazis, I say.
