It was the muffle of squash-rubber being slammed against a wall; pock-bounce-pock-bounce-pock. And the warm aroma of subtle chlorine; like summer and the loveliness of floating. Seduction aural and olfactoral, I found myself with a 36 month Planet Fitness gym contract.
No random bourgeoisie phase this, but dire, dire necessity.
We've moved to new offices you see, and all it takes is a lift ride down to ground floor, a few inconsequential paces and before me lies satan in the forest (well, amid Jan Smuts traffic at least), Fournos Bakery. And that seduction of the senses is somewhat more headier, more base, more enticing. I know its just the home-sweet aroma of buttery rising dough and frisky yeast; those little unicellulars doing their darndest to deliver their destiny, which translates into me doing my darndest to deliver on my destiny, which is to sample every flake of pastry that was ever birthed in a Fournos oven.
So, in order to bring order to my universe, the force must be balanced and off to gym I go.
Where I have to undergo an initial assessment, the obvious simile: like a land mass before they begin construction. I'm required to hold what looks like an erstwhile PS2 control at arms-length, and press firmly with my palm and thumbs. Electrical impulses (of the no-buzz, no-fun kind) are transmitted through my body from this gameboy-poser, where their task is to report back to HQ with my fat cell census. Horror overtakes me. Hide little fat cells hide! We shall not be counted! Too late ... I had visions of little michelin-men struggling to bend over to tie up the laces on dusty running shoes, suddenly being rugby-tackled by these svelte electrons.
I'm handed a print out of my results in bitter, stark toner. Reality smacked me on what the results indicated was a lardy rear, "Get a move on, Fatty, You've got some real work to do."
Ah, the spirit is willing but the flesh, oh the flesh, is much much too weak.