Today I’m Jabba the Hut, tomorrow I’ll be Jane Fonda. (Yes, apologies for my methuselah referencing, there’s more to come). While this isn’t the beginning of an article about fitness and why we should all be killing ourselves at the gym, I must rave about my little attempts to tone my Jabba jelly jangly bits, while giving my heart a needed workout. I’ve been attending a gym for the past few months, so fantasies of fantastical transformations have been swimming around my mind. Please don’t think this is one of those boring ‘New Year New Me’ magazine articles in which I waffle on, trying to lose weight to make my life complete. It’s not, I swear, more of an encouraging and slightly annoying tale of sweat in a Derry gym.
I don’t really think I look like Jabba, but sometimes, usually at the weekends, when I convince my sister to bring me ‘snacks’ that include chocolate, crisps and any cheese-related product, I’m found in the same angular position as Jabba, laid across the sofa as a lord of the manor. I can feel the same waggle of flesh that I’m sure Jabba felt and the sinking feeling — no, the actual sinking into the sofa, which displays the flattened outline of my bottom. But, unlike Jabba, I can grow a spine and jump on the treadmill to work up a sweat and build up those delicious endorphins that every fitness freak recognises.
My gym is reasonably cheap and because I was a student when I joined last September, I pay a bit less. It’s open 24-hours a day, which could come in handy when I wake up in the middle of the night with the sudden urge to drive to the gym, jump on a treadmill and run through the night. Nope, it ain’t happening. But the option is there, and it must be a selling point for those people on late/early shifts. The building has all the basic amenities, changing rooms, showers and all the machines and weights you can shake a bicep at. And I love it.
When I first arrived in Ireland from Dubai after five glorious years in the emirate, I was thrown as to the limited outdoors activities one can partake in, due mostly to the torrential rain and the never-ending hills. My cousin and a few friends have joined running clubs, of which there are many in Derry, but I couldn’t see myself battling against the wind and biblical floods — when nature wants me out of the way that’s exactly what I’m going to do. There was a time when I would glide along a synthetic, rubberised surface as a gentle breeze patted my beaded face with the loving caress of a mother, the sky bright and clear with a crescent moon playfully smiling, encouraging me along the palm-tree-lined track. Thinking of it now as the gales, sleet and ice terrorise the neighbourhood, I’m slightly overcome with nostalgia.
In Derry, I prefer the controlled environment of a gym and a treadmill I know won’t be affected by potholes or traffic and a temperature that won’t cause frostbite or hypothermia. So it’s a decent trade off. And those endorphins are certainly worth it, every time. So I may from time to time regale these lines with tales of my gym exploits, and one day I’ll shed my Jabba-esque physique and join the ranks of the fit, watching from the comfort of the gym as the poor wretches of the running club wipe the snow from their faces. We’ll all be glad to see the back of winter, I think.
Christina Curran is freelance journalist based in Northern Ireland.
