Showing posts with label girls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label girls. Show all posts

Monday, 5 September 2011

McManus and French

Recently whilst in the gym a very severe issue has came to my attention. Actually it has been annoying me for years but I'm just now going to get it out there. Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't the gym somewhere people go to do physical activity? Well why do these so called exercisers insist on parking so close to the gym entrance they have to climb out the passenger door. Honestly though, it happens everywhere. I used to work in a really top notch private health club chain. Out front of the club there was a circular drive for hotel drop offs, with a lovely little fountain. You would see Jags, Porches, top of the range Mercedes parked half on the kerb squashed at the front of the club. There was a whole car park quite literally 10 yards away but of course that's not good enough. Perhaps the gym should employ staff to come over to these cars with wheelchairs and push people into the club too. In the gym the other day I was on the treadmill minding my own business as usual when I saw a big family saloon car drive up and into a disabled space. Obviously as I always think the best in people :-/ never in a million years did I expect a fully ambulant legging clad elephant leg to step out from the car. I peered and peered but yet no motability badge appeared on that window. She hung about a bit, had a cigarette, you know just to open up the lungs for a workout and then her friend turned up.
Down the car park drives a people carrier as it screeches diagonally into the disabled space next to our legging clad smoker. Out jumps her equally sizable and legging clad buddy, bear hug ensues (really I can only describe it as a bear hug). But she has done one better. She is wearing the most illuminous lime green trainers. The type of trainers only a really good runner should wear. I was thinking to myself that I better get off the treadmill before they get in just in case they show me up for the phony runner that I am.
What annoys me about this picture is not that they have parked in the disabled spaces (well yeah it is this act is unacceptable) but that they have parked in the two closest disabled spaces to the entrance which means anyone who genuinely needs that space cannot use it. They didn't have badges before you say it. The Sherlock Holmes in me checked this. So unless sever inability to dress appropriately for your size can get you disability now then they bottom out right there and then.
Now here comes the ironic park. McManus and French came into the gym and went straight onto the treadmill. So the duo couldn't walk the length of the car park but come to the gym to walk on a mechanical moving pavement. It just tickled me slightly. Here is the best bit. To my disappointment French was not, I repeat not an common wealth runner in her citrus colours shoes. In fact she was so bad at walking on a treadmill that every time she wanted to talk to her big pal Michelle she actually paused the treadmill. And on that bombshell..............

Monday, 5 April 2010

Whooaaa, my first post

How do I begin, first of all, welcome to my blog and if you like it please subscribe to read the rest and tell people about it. Also please feel free to tell stories have debates or just a giggle here and there in the comments box. Before I was a personal trainer, fitness was something I learned from school, television and my papa. The faster I ran the better and every exercise routine consisted of 3 sets 10 reps then stretching. Super sets? Pyramids? Intervals? Endurance? Waste 'o' time. Better to go hell for leather on the treadmill for 20 minutes and leave the gym sweating like a horse than do dainty little crunches or a aerobics class. Sure I was fit, but was that the point? Then I became a Personal Trainer (aka a know it all) In my first gym job I would walk right up to guys with arms bigger than my thigh and say "hey your not doing those bicep curls right" I was lucky some of these "muscle men" didn't throw me over the preacher bench in anger. I slowly began to learn to shut up with certain people and let them get on with it. Usually baffling them with the names of ligaments and tendons did the trick though if they thought I was just some skinny wee girl. I'd show em . . . . . . .