I had it written on my desk calendar in red pen.
“Call gym.”
It was a task I had been avoiding for weeks now, but today was officially the last day I could put it off.
I was calling to quit, you see, and if I left it one more minute I would clock over to a new month and new fees.
Biting my lip, I dialed the number and followed the prompts.
“Existing members, please press 2” – Oh god, what was I doing?
“To speak to someone about personal training, please press 1” – Help! Was this the death to my personal fitness?
“Hi, this is Connor, can I have your membership number?” – *WAILS*
Like any break-up, the conversation was short and shitty. I dripped with guilt and apologies, and he scrambled desperately to keep me, offering to pause my membership for free.
I was a loyal member for seven years, he said, was there anything he could do to make me stay?
Alas, I was resolute. After seven long years of treadmills, yelling teachers, music videos, and anxiety-inducing techno music; I was ready for a change.
I was done.
I guess you could say it all started with a stumble.
An avid runner, I was halfway back from my regular Bondi to Bronte jog when I landed awkwardly on my right foot. Thinking nothing of it, I pushed on. And did so again the next day. And the next day. And by the time I saw the podiatrist, the news was grim.
My poor choice in running shoes (Nike Free Runs, absolute torture machines for rolling ankles like mine) had exacerbated my small injury, and the muscle inside my foot arch was beginning to tear away.
There was to be no more running for at least a few months. Oh, and I was recommended to buy BIRKENSTOCKS. Trendy, ugly, clumpy Birkenstocks.
Well, I couldn’t decide what was worse.
With running officially off the menu, my decision was therefore to either curb the menu; or find another way to work the menu off. With the former not even an option, I tried my hand at a few different methods of making myself sweat: the bike, the step machine, core classes, even the rowing machine.
I hated it all.
I had just about given up when I happened to chat to a friend who has recently quit her job to train as a yoga teacher. She was raving about the studio she’s currently training at, and what a good workout it is, and how amazing the teachers are, and…yeah, well, I was sold.
I’m now in my third week at a yoga studio in Bondi, and you guys, I really need to have a Tom-Cruise-Jumping-On-Oprah’s-Couch-Moment.
THIS SHIT IS AMAZING. The practice itself is intense, and I can feel myself becoming stronger in places that I never even knew existed.
I am calmer, I am relaxed, and I am excited to go, every time.