Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my water bottle and strode into one of those fancy gyms ready to smash some exercise goals.
I guess signing up for a new fitness regime is so much more than bouncing around to pumping tunes while you desperately try to keep up with the others.
For myself and so many women, walking through those doors was a big deal. The date had been on my calendar for three weeks. It was a huge mental challenge for me. I wanted to do better and be better. I had even told my family and friends. I wanted to be accountable.
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I’m sure you have walked past those gyms on the high street. The ones with the big windows Everyone seemingly looking great. Fit, healthy, attractive. And it’s bloody intimidating. Terrifying, even.
Of course, I wanted to be just like them. Like actually enjoy working out. Oozing body confidence and high fiving my tribe as we smashed out another tough set together.
And suddenly there I was, standing amongst them, nervously looking for a friendly face while secretly wishing the ground would swallow me up.
Within minutes I felt out of my depth and the class hadn’t even begun. What if I couldn’t keep up? What if I fell over trying to jump over things? What if the two bras I was wearing were not enough to hold the 12G girls in?
Self-doubt took over. I can’t even touch my toes and here I was about to be thrown into a complicated sequence of moves that would see my squishy rear end far too close to a stranger’s face as I frog jumped across the floor.