What a Boob

It never fails to amaze me what happens to me in the gym. I love going into that sweaty temple, 5 times a week. And every time I leave its shiny gates I have a classic anecdote tucked away amidst a puff of burned calories.
One of my favourite love-to-hate classes, is Body Attack. Every Tuesday evening after work, I endure a gruelling one hour of sado-masochism. Although I can’t bear the instructors (a married couple, Australian – need I say more?) and the music is truly hideous (a trance mix of Beat It, anyone?), I am happy to push myself to the max – after a solid hour of flailing about like a slightly overweight gazelle on ketamine, I am left a drained, sweat-drenched wreck, with barely a pulse.

But last night’s class brought a completely new level of humiliation to the table. Over the years I’ve done a lot of really embarrassing things – weeing myself during marathon training; forgetting to take my underwear off before swimming; flying off the treadmill – but this time I pushed the exercise fiasco envelope. In mid whooping leap, surrounded by 25 strong class buddies and a couple of nauseatingly over-excited instructors, my sports bra snapped sending my jiggling mounds free.

Instinctively I attentively embraced my newly emancipated breasts and legged it out of the studio. The rest of the class clearly knew what had happened, but when I returned into the sweat den (straps re-engaged) no-one looked me in the eye – except the blonde Aussie fuckwit, grinning her head off down the front. The slag.

Next week, I’ll show them. I’m heading off down to Marks & Sparks to get some serious reinforcements…

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