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So over the weekend I only leave home for a maximum of 3 hours (the other 45 spent in front of the TV or lying in bed) and the 3 hours outside the house occur on Sunday afternoon when I go to the gym and then meet Anthony for coffee.
The gym: Scott and I decide to try this branch of our gym where we haven’t been before and it’s the only one that has a swimming pool in central London, but I never go there because it’s out of my way. And I don’t intend to work out, I just want to have a quick swim (no more than 6 lengths so that I don’t start losing weight) and then hang out in the Jacuzzi / steam room / sauna. Scott intends to work out and go on the sunbed.
And we go there and find out that the Jacuzzi / steam room / sauna are all out of order so I just do my 6 lengths, Scott goes on the sunbed, we shower, steal two gym towels and some guy’s underwear that we find in the changing rooms and leave.
The coffee: As you well know Anthony is back in the UK for a short holiday so Scott and I meet him at Apostrophe for a chat and some hot chocolate. And during the chat we talk about my new TV and agree that having a big TV is nice but it’s also very working class and people who have huge TVs like mine usually live in council estates and are on benefits and have saved for years to get one, and they need it so they can stick it in the living room and all 10 of their children can watch at the same time.
Still, this conversation fails to make me fall out of love with my TV and if this makes me proletarian, so be it.
After that I have to ask Anthony some questions of course, to assess whether he can be an ideal next boyfriend when I’m available again. And my main concern naturally is whether he loves me because of the way I look, or because of who I am (or he thinks I am anyway). OK, fair enough, he doesn’t actually love me yet, but I need to evaluate his motives and his potential. So I ask him: “Will you still love me if I lose all my muscles and definition?”
This is actually a very valid question and something that worries me a lot. I’m not saying that Scott only cares for my muscles of course and has stayed with me for 2 years just for that, but the things he only very compliments me about are: my boobs, my knob, my arms, my bum, my abs (in that order).
I don’t even want compliments on other intangible talents that I have to be honest (he can’t appreciate my writing because he’s dyslexic and doesn’t read much and he doesn’t care that I know all the lyrics word by word to The Smiths’ back catalogue or that I can recite the positions where all the Menswear singles charted between 1994 and 1997, because he doesn’t care much about music), but even on a superficial level, I feel a lot more comfortable when somebody tells me that I have nice eyes or a well-constructed face or the right shape ears or something, than anything related to what I have achieved by going to the gym.
And this is because I genuinely don’t consider my abs or my biceps or my pecs as part of me really and permanently, but more as something that is very temporary, a result of constant effort and restraint and nothing to base a real attraction to me on.
Also all these muscles will disappear when I get the next bout of Guillain Barre Syndrome (if I do) and I feel very insecure when people like me because of them. In other words my face will still be there if I don’t go to the gym for 2 months, but my six-pack won’t.
Anyway, if anyone is still with me, we’re at the point where I ask Anthony if he’ll still love me without the gym body and he gives a positive but non-committal answer (at least that’s how I interpret it), which makes me think that maybe if I plan to stop going to the gym or be sick again, I should also lower my standards in terms of boyfriends.
I have 9 songs by Dolly Parton and I've played them 86 times
I have 1 song by Dolores O'Riordan and I've played it 16 times
I have 1 song by Don Henley and I've played it 132 times