Adam and I have now escaped from our Fitness Farce memberships and, rather sensibly, joined the gym closest to our place, which is also a lot cheaper. At the new gym, the treadmills are stuck in the window like a shop display – I get to show off my arse to everyone absently wandering past outside. Tops.
It’s a whole lot better than the last gym. They gave me a free personal trainer session too – as I’m relatively clueless on using weights machines, I got the guy to work out a weights routine for me. Turns out the stretching routines after using each machine are more complicated than the machines themselves. Fortunately, he was kind enough to draw me little diagrams of stick-figure men in a number of enthusiastic stretching poses.
I’ll be buggered if I know what they all mean, though. The first one looks like a regular stick figure, to which a year 8 student has cobbled on oversized genitals. (I think it’s actually supposed to mean I stretch my arms down or something, god knows what). Actually, it probably is stretching my arms down, as the next diagram features the some confusing shape above my butt, so I’m assuming that means I have to stretch my hands behind my back.
The next diagram appears to be some sort of curious giraffe (that said, there’s a few roidmunchers at this new gym who take on that appearance).
Of course, I did my best to randomly stretch and squirm and writhe after submitting myself to each machine. My body felt decidedly battered by the weekend, so I figured I may as well batter my eardrums as well, and went along to the Team Sleep gig. Brisbane and Melbourne, you still have a chance to see them play tomorrow night and Wednesday night respectively. They’re heartily Jeb recommended. Kudos to the crowd for the lack of Deftones shirts, but a Sunday late night gig, what the fuck? I’ve never even been to such a thing.
Still, it was all worth it just to hear someone in the crowd utter the following phrase after the gig:
The fucking Testeagles are still around? ….FUCK. ME.
(Seriously. They are!)