That sort of manual would definitely come in handy today. I’ve made one of those once-in-a-blue-moon trips to the gym, and I’m stuck on the rowing machine.
Yes, really.
This is the kind of trouble a packet of chocolate buttons and a twelve-year-old bucket list can get you into, folks. After closing up the bakery for the day, I decided to embrace my newfound positivity and finally use the gym membership I’ve been paying for for what feels like for ever.
I had a nice little rhythm going before I decided to call it a day; the back-and-forth motion was even quite relaxing in a weird sort of way. I managed to lose myself in the exercise and even stopped thinking about my bucket list for a little while. However, when it comes to getting my feet out of the pedals, I’ve hit a snag. The straps won’t loosen and there’s no wiggle room whatsoever. So now, my sparkly trainers are firmly wedged in the rowing machine’s pedals and I’m way too embarrassed to ask for help. Instead, I smile and carry on sliding the seat back and forth, like this was what I planned to do all along. I catch the eye of a big burly bloke on a nearby treadmill; I flash him a smile, but he sharply diverts his gaze elsewhere.
‘A smile doesn’t cost you anything,’ I mutter under my breath, mentally noting the unfriendly patrons as yet another reason why I don’t come to the gym. It has nothing whatsoever to do with how disaster-prone I am with exercise equipment, absolutely not.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure approaching me. I hope to God it’s not someone who wants to use this machine. They’ll be waiting a hell of a long time if that’s the case.
‘Everything OK over here?’
I sneak a glance and see a tall, dark-haired man clad in gym gear towering over me. An amused smile is playing on his lips and I can tell he’s trying his best not to laugh at me.
‘Oh, yeah!’ I muster my best breezy smile and continue my awkward sliding motion on the rowing-machine seat. ‘Just gearing up for the next… er… row! I’m really going for it today.’
Mr Gym Gear crouches down next to me, his smile growing wider by the second and his hazel eyes sparkling with humour. ‘Your feet are trapped, aren’t they?’
He gestures to my sparkly silver trainers, still in the rowing machine’s evil clutches. I let go of the chain handle and slap a hand to my forehead.
‘How did you guess?’ I ask with a chuckle. ‘Am I really that obvious?’
He shakes his head and expertly undoes one of the straps, before moving to the other side to work on the other.
‘No, this machine’s notorious for trapping people,’ he explains as he frees my other foot. ‘Up until a few minutes ago, you looked like you knew exactly what you were doing. Then I clocked the panicked look on your face and thought I’d come over to give you a hand.’
He extends a hand to help me up and I take it, feeling my cheeks turn a deeper shade of scarlet.
‘Well thanks for, er, coming to my rescue!’ For some reason, I think my words should be followed up with a hand gesture, so I salute.
Cleo, what the hell are you playing at?
I’m all too aware that I probably look like a sweaty, overgrown Girl Guide, but I try my best not to show my embarrassment. My encounter with Mr Gym Gear has been awkward enough already.
‘No problem, any time.’ He smiles at me. ‘My name’s Scott, by the way, Scott Robinson, like the Neighbours character. In case you need to be rescued again.’
He looks expectantly at me, like he’s waiting to hear my name in return. It sits snugly on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to pop out…
Instead ‘I’d better go’ leaps out, followed by ‘I’m running late for a root canal appointment!’ Before Mr Gym Gear – now known as Scott – can ask any questions, I take off down the metal steps towards the weightlifting area and scurry off to the changing rooms as quickly as possible.
I didn’t completely lie to Scott; there is somewhere I have to be, but it’s a whole lot worse than a root canal appointment.
*
For those of you who haven’t been to a Carb Counters meeting before, here’s how it works. You stand in a very long queue to get weighed and measured, then sit in a circle and talk about what kind of week you’ve had. The group leader, in this case Marjorie, announces what everyone’s gained or lost and the whole thing is rounded off with a quick workout session.
In short, it’s a bloody awful experience. Unfortunately for me, it’s also a necessary one. I’ve lost three stone in a year and, even though I still have a long way to go before I’m at my ideal size, it’s helped me achieve things I couldn’t have done on my own. I started coming to meetings about a year ago, after finally deciding to get fit and healthy instead of just talking about it. Joining and losing weight is what prompted me to start applying for trainee dance teacher positions too, although that hasn’t exactly turned out as planned.
I get to the community centre with just moments to spare before the group starts. The centre is just down the street from the bakery, and is also right next to a café that does the best red velvet cake in the world. The temptation to sneak in for a pre- or post-slimming-group treat is very hard to resist.
The first person I see is Marjorie’s assistant, Linda. She’s more of a minion and general dogsbody than an assistant, carrying out whatever orders Marjorie barks at her. Currently, she’s sitting at a foldout table, surrounded by boxes of overpriced snack bars, and waiting to take any remaining membership fees.
‘Hiya, Cleo love,’ she says, throwing a quick, warm smile my way as she finishes counting some money. It shrinks a little when she takes a proper look at me. ‘Oh dear, you look like you’ve been in the wars today! Everything all right?’
‘Oh this?’ I feel a blush creep onto my cheeks as I tug at my frizzy dark curls. ‘Ended up having a fight with a rowing machine!’ I watch her brow furrow in confusion. ‘Long story… Hang on, I’ll get my card out.’
I delve into my purse and slide out a little pink card with CARB COUNTERS emblazoned on the front. Linda scans it and takes the crumpled tenner I offer her.
‘Better watch out,’ she says in a low voice, ‘Her Ladyship’s on the prowl.’
Before I can answer, I hear some very distinctive footsteps approaching me. High heels clicking on wood – it can only be Marjorie.
‘Well, hello there, Cleopatra!’ Her voice is dripping with sugar and her mouth is stretched into a bright pink smile. ‘Cutting it a bit fine today, aren’t you?’
I grit my teeth at hearing my full name; she’s the only one who uses it. Everyone else, including my own mum, calls me Cleo. I plaster a bright grin of my own on my face and meet the group leader’s gaze.
‘How are you, Marjorie?’ I ask, injecting as much enthusiasm into my voice as possible. ‘Sorry I’m late; I was at the gym and lost track of time.’
She puts a bony hand on my shoulder, which slightly unsettles me. I try to back away, but her grip is pretty firm for someone so skinny. Instead, I decide to show as little fear as possible and widen my smile even further. People like Marjorie can smell fear, I’m sure of it.
‘No, no, how are you?’ She sounds like a cross between Barbie and Regina George from Mean Girls: syrupy sweet with a slightly menacing edge. ‘I remember how devastated you were after that