Bluefit

So remember how I said I'd joined the gym?
Let's talk about that.

For someone who lives on bubblegum and coffee and considers the 15 minute walk to and from work 'enough exercise for the day', I am seriously surprised by my own enthusiasm when it comes to working out.  And not just because I can't think of any place which presents me with more opportunities to make inappropriate vagina jokes than the gym.  That's mostly it, but there's also something truly exhilarating about realising you can run on a treadmill for an extended period of time without killing yourself.  Plus, the personal trainers are all pretty good-looking, which never hurts.  Unless they're the ones taking the cycle class at 6:30 on Friday nights.
THAT one hurt.
Here's what amuses me about the gym:
1) I am in it.  Also,
2) They have these huge posters everywhere with Bluefit written on them.  That's the name of the gym.  Bluefit.  Things like:

I don't understand this form of advertising, nor the reasoning behind it.  I AM ALREADY IN YOUR GYM.  I'm in it!  I joined!  You got me!  What are you doing with the giant Bluefit posters?  Are these supposed to be motivating me?  Fine.  That's all well and good, but as far as I'm concerned there's a time and place for motivational posters.  And during the minor heart attack I experience after a 60-minute cycle class isn't it!  I'm thinking about printing up my own, more suitable motivational poster for the womens locker room:

Perhaps I should start working out naked.

Now, what is something as ridiculous as the idea of me working out naked?
Zumba.
You know they have Zumba classes at my gym, right?  Crop tops, fast-paced music, and dancing.  I think that's the perfect combination for someone so uncoordinated they can barely walk in a straight line when sober.  So of course Alex and I went along last Monday night.  And oh, what a night it was.
Zumba was fun, and enjoyable, and hilarious.  And I can say with complete honesty that I have never felt more physically inept in my lifetime.  Perhaps that term in Year 10 when I attempted beach volleyball as an elective sport.  But apart from that, no.  I don't know what it is about me, I just know there is no time I should attempt dancing unless tequila is involved.  I'm too gawky.  Yes, that's a word.

Gawky: –adjective, gawk·i·er, gawk·i·est.

awkward; ungainly; clumsy.

I'm a gawk.  Not to be confused with the term 'dork', although I'm undoubtably one of those too.  I think it's my arms.  They seem disproportionate to the rest of my body.  Like an ape.  Or a chimpanzee wearing overalls, only less coordinated.  It doesn't help that Alex (who actually danced in highschool) was a total natural.  Here's her first Zumba class:

And here's mine:

I'm not too worried though.  For what I lack in dancing skills, I totally make up for with a list of numerous and seemingly random talents, such as the ability to ride a bike and eat and icecream at the same time.  Also, I have a blog.  Once again, line up gentlemen.