Being Picked First at Sports

With the major highlights of my sporting life being the 'darts/dance' confusion and the time I won the silver medal for fast-walking at the age of 12, my expectations remain low for any future opportunities of redemption.

But this weekend, I set in motion a chain of events that will probably lead to me becoming one of the major British hopes at the 2012 Olympics. How did I do this? Well, I joined the gym.

I've joined the gym before and had brief bouts of obsession with it. Extremely brief. It's always been sort of intimidating to me. There are so many torturous ways to humiliate myself within a gym. Falling over on the treadmill, dropping a medicine ball in one's face, using a machine so poorly that a member of staff has to come over and 'teach' you how to use it...I've done it all.

But anyone who knows me will know of my severe phobia of obesity. I seriously come out in hives by the very sight of Beth Ditto. So even though I am still lanky, I'm keen to combat my diet of beer and biscuits by working out.

I think it's an age thing. I'm worried that everything will start turning to shit after I turn 25 next month. With 6 weeks or so until that dreaded day, I knew that I needed to start doing something. So, I headed along to my local gym yesterday wearing my new £5 sweat-pants and ready for whatever soul-crushing embarrassment might face me this time.

On the walk there I couldn't decide whether I wanted to say 'I'd like to join' or 'I'd like to sign up' so of course my stupid, stupid mouth gave some sort of bizarre mix of the two as I reached the reception. I was greeted by a look of bewilderment and my new start had reached its first hurdle.

I was seated and told I could get three personal trainer sessions for £35 with my membership. If I attended all three, they would give me the money back. I was convinced that they would make the first session so wrist-slittingly cruel that I would be a fool to attend any more. But I needed to stop viewing the gym as an extension of high school. Did any of it really matter anymore? Wasn't I over this?

I signed up and started right away on the treadmill. I had the horrible misfortune of seeing my reflection the entire time which allowed me to fearfully dissect every possible aspect of my running style. Ben, your left leg is careering wildly to the side. Ben, your arms are moving like those of a puppet. Ben, your face is a sweaty mess.

One of my main problems with the gym is that I find it all so incredibly dull. There doesn't seem to be much point to it at times. I generally hate gym culture. People bragging about how many bench presses they've done (that's a thing, right?) or flexing in the mirror while emitting a loud growl. Dull.

After my 'session' I had of course forgotten to bring another t-shirt or a towel so I had to leave, looking grotesquely perspired. Plus the sheer trauma my legs had been through meant that I had to walk down the stairs, looking like I had been raped. I went to book in my first personal trainer session even though my brain was telling me this would only lead to wrong things.

A typically buff and blandly attractive personal trainer tried to book me in but was unable to work the computer. He called off for help and a small, ginger, bespectacled, out of shape guy came. He then told me that instead, he would be my trainer.

This was perfect. I was totally fine with this. My feelings of inadequacy would be wildly improved with this one.

I do have this fear still that I will go in next weekend and make such an utter twat of myself in this one hour session that every time I go in after, there will be chuckling heard from reception. Then my 'trainer' will say 'Oh yeah that's the weird one who couldn't lift a pencil' and I will never return again.

But fuck it. I'm gonna try this time. I'm even considering joining the softball team at work just to really show everyone (myself) that I can do it. The only thing that is preventing me from taking part is my crippling inability to play a game without turning into the most competitive person in the world.

This is going to be the new me. The sporty, active guy who growls in front of mirrors. Fuck, it's 12:30 and I was supposed to go to the gym this morning...