Smells.

I’ve started gymming on a semi-regular basis at my local fitness centre. It’s not the first time I’ve had the urge to become healthy. I’m a serial gym-addict with an on-again off-again relationship with fitness.

To clarify things, the relationship is back on. I go to the gym a few times a week and pay people to yell at me, to scream at me, to make me jump around like a spastic, and to make me so knackered that I cant even lift my head from the pillow at night to give Mr Frog a good night kiss. I do this in the name of fitness.

If I stop to consider the fact that I enjoy this type of abuse worries me, so generally I dont stop to consider it. I just keep going.

Last night was the same type of abuse fun, as Mr Hyperactive “I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS” Gym Instructor strolls in to start the night. I think everything is fine, until I got a waft of the incredible B.O that was hovering around. These smells aren’t uncommon in gym environments, so I continue with the class.

10 minutes, 150 push ups, 45 sit ups and 90 star-jumps later, the smell hasn’t gone. I get B.O-phobia and start smelling myself at any given opportunity – Was it me? Shit… It’s hard to look inconspicuous when you’re trying to shove your nose under your armpits in the middle of star-jumps.

It wasn’t me, it was my gym towel. My neglected towel that travels the world with me. To say that it stank is equivalent of saying the Pacific is a puddle. My gym towel’s prime goal in life is to exist in my gym bag and not smell. It was so smelly it literally hummed with pong. And once I’d figured out where the pong was coming from, I had pong shame. I kept looking at the people around me, to see if they could smell it too….

But, if nothing else, my pongy gym towel gave me so much more incentive to push myself up and off it – to get my nose further away from the ground!!

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