Gym Phobic

I’ve always resisted the urge to join a gym.  When we were in the US I got in the habit of going a couple of times a week simply because it was there in the apartment building. I’ve never  felt the need to go out of my way to drive to a gym. Why not just go for a walk?

Anyway, the weather had been bad, my power walks along the river bank had been curtailed due to rising tides and copious amounts of mud, I hadn’t been working out in the garden because of rain, and someone mentioned a special offer.  Before I knew it I’d gone for an inquisitive nose around a local leisure club and the next minute I’d signed on the dotted line.

I have tried to be good. I set myself a realistic target – twice a week.  Mark it on your calendar, the gym assistant said.

Quite naturally the weather has now improved. It’s positively balmy.  I’ve been to the garden centre. I’ve lugged bags of compost from the car to the house; I’ve spent whole afternoons out of doors filling pots and digging holes. I've cut the grass. Yesterday a friend suggested we go for a four mile hike – I even got sunburnt.

This morning there it was on the calendar. Gym.  Every muscle in my body ached. The last thing I wanted to do was go to the gym.

I noticed as I sat having my breakfast that the cat had left paw marks on the living room window.  I cleaned the window. Then I realised all the other windows in the house needed cleaning too. I ran upstairs to collect the dirty laundry to put in the washing machine. Then I ran back up two flights of stairs  to the teenager’s room to collect her dirty laundry, and empty her bins. Then I swept the kitchen floor.  

By eight thirty in the morning I felt like I’d already had a pretty good work out and the grocery shopping was still on my list of things to do. 

So what's the answer? I've paid for the gym so I'm going to have to use it. I'll just have to quit doing the chores.