To gym, or not to gym...

Today I promised myself I would make it to the gym. I was actually almost nearly looking forward to it. But as the day has worn on, I’ve become more and more lethargic. London’s appalling July weather curbed my enthusiasm and left me feeling like eating stew and watching a romcom rather than doing sprints on the rowing machine.

An hour ago I started to accept that the gym might not happen. I then allowed myself to experience the glee of imagining I didn’t have to go. Immediately I felt the familiar rush of relief flooding through and, in a sign from the heavens, the sun burst through the clouds. Suddenly everything seemed bearable again. Even God didn’t want me to exercise. To celebrate, I bought and inhaled a Kit-Kat.

It’s frustrating to be so short-sighted and simultaneously so self-aware, to give in to unhealthy desires while steeped in the knowledge that my ultimate yearning is to have the toned body of a supermodel and the eating habits of a young bluetit.

In my experience, however, it is exceptionally hard to regret a chocolate-covered wafer. Let’s be honest: it’s hard to regret a chocolate-covered anything. Coat a nail file in Cadbury’s and I’ll eat it with relish. Smear Nutella on a duvet and I’ll tuck in. Sadly, there’s absolutely nothing petite about my appetite – and until I stop using tenuous excuses like ‘the weather’ to postpone trips to an (indoor) gym which is reached via internal corridors and requires no mingling with the elements whatsoever, I think my thighs will remain, like my appetite, disappointingly grande.