The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. It's almost 6 pm. There's a gym class at 6 pm called Crosstraining. I'm trying to decide whether to go or not.

I've never done Crosstraining before. I've seen people doing it and it looks intimidating. It's mostly men, and they do it outside. They set up some kind of assault course with weights, monkey bars, and, I kid you not, a bloody huge tractor tyre.

What happens if I can't do the exercises? And there's a big bloke behind me saying, "Come on, come on, I'm waiting to use your equipment."? And then everyone's waiting for me and then I collapse on the floor and die of a heart attack. What then?

I flip a coin. Heads, I go. Tails, I stay at home.

It lands on tails, which means 'stay at home'.

Five minutes later and I'm walking to the gym, having ignored the coin. Fuck what the coin says. I'm not letting a coin tell me what to do.

But as I approach the gym, I begin to regret leaving the house. "Fuck you Paul," I mutter to myself. "You stupid bastard. Why do you do this to me? Why?!" No-one can see that I'm talking to myself because I'm wearing a COVID mask. That's one of the perks of COVID I guess.

It's too late to cancel the class. I have to go to the class now. Because otherwise, the gym receptionist will give me a bollocking the next time I see him. He did that to me before, for missing an aerobics class. This gym doesn't mess around.

I consider just never going to the gym again. That's probably the best option. But the thing is, I've paid upfront for a six-month membership, and if I stop going, then it's like throwing 360 euros away.

My brain is officially:

A) an idiot, and

B) not allowed to make decisions anymore.

I get to the Crosstraining class. Everyone else is already there. Why do they all arrive early? It's not like you get a sticker for arriving early. Actually, maybe they do. I wouldn't know as I've never arrived early to any of these fucking gym classes.

There are six men and two women. And they all distinctly have more testosterone than I do, even the women.

The instructor arrives. He's a man called Javier and he's in considerably better shape than I am. Though that's not difficult.

"Any new people?" he asks.

Nervously, I put my hand up. Everyone turns to look at me.

"First time?" he says.

He makes it sound like he's taking my virginity.

I nod.

"Okay, so go easy today," he tells me. Go easy? He doesn't need to tell me twice.

First, he makes us do a warm-up. It's like being back at school, doing PE. But I don't remember PE being this bloody knackering. After a couple of minutes of Javier's warm-up, I'm already out of breath. And we haven't even started the actual class yet.

When the warm-up is finally over, Javier teams me (the newbie) up with another guy. I don't know his name. Possibly he told me and I've already forgotten it. He's tall, bald, and has more muscle than me. I'll call him Captain Gymlord.

The instructor assigns Captain Gymlord and me to a big wooden box. It's about a metre high.

"What do we have to do with that?" I ask. "Sit on it?"

"Jump on it," says Captain Gymlord.

"Jump on that?" I ask incredulously.

"Yeah," he says. "Do you think you do it?"

"I don't know," I say. "I've never tried jumping that high before."

I get a flashback of secondary school. The PE teacher, Mr Jackson, making us jump while he held a tape measure against the wall. When it was my turn, I did a pathetic little jump and the other kids laughed at me. My jump was the lowest in the whole class. THE WHOLE CLASS. I kid you not. I still remember the bullies laughing at me.

I brace myself. Then I make the highest jump I've ever done in my life, like Mr Bean channelling Michael Jordon.

Somehow, miraculously, my feet land on top of the box, though only just.

"I did it!" I say.

"Good job," he says. "Now we've got to do ten more."

After a minute of jumping up to the box and jumping back down again, the instructor makes us all change activities. Now Captain Gymlord and I have to lie down and do leg raises.

Then 20-kilo deadlifts.

Then we have to jump forward along the ground while each a carrying 10-kilo weights. I find myself making loud grunts and swearing in a mixture of Catalan and English:

"Fucking Chirst"

"Puta de hostia"

"Mare de deu"

"Jesus fuck"

It's all religious-based swearing too. I hope God's not real. If he is, he's going to want a word with me in the afterlife.

This is the most exercise I have ever done in my life. I wish it was over.

Thankfully, the class finishes. My breathing has a strange wheezy sound like the sound of someone with asthma.

I don't think I’m cut out for Crosstraining just yet. Though maybe I'll come back to it in a few months or years or maybe never?