Training never looks this glam

Training never looks this glam

Normally, I’m a pioneer against bad gym style. And crimes against fashion occur more frequently on the cross-trainer than they do on Croydon high street. Like seriously, neon pink sweat bands on blokes built like He-Man (perhaps that should be She-rah…), or girls in boob tubes smaller than a loin cloth. If I wanted to stare at an anorexic slut with her fried eggs on show, then I’d look at Miley Cyrus’ holiday snaps.

But alas, it’s not wise for people in glass houses to throw stones, so today I won’t be dishing out any shade at those in five finger shoes or in 80s style leotards, as I recently suffered the mother of all wardrobe malfunctions. It was my Tara Reid on the Red Carpet moment. My Janet Jackson at the Superbowl moment. My Britney Spears stepping out of any car between 2006 and 2008 moment. It was one of those days when you’re in a rush in the morning and don’t really concentrate on the outfit you’re putting together, kinda like what Ke$ha does every morning. And then you arrive at the gym, confronted with that awkward moment when you put on your gym shorts to find they must have shrunk in the wash. Either that or my ass was doing it’s best impression of Kim Kardashian.

gym-bum

Either way, I’m usually all for a little go-go short – but on a podium, not a treadmill. Together with my YMCA cheerleader vest I looked like I’d just come from a pole dancing class with George Michael. Still, I’d already mustered up the motivation to get up at 7am and work out on my day off so I weren’t gonna let a pair of batty riders get in the way, even if everyone could see what I’d had for breakfast.
I felt like I was 18 again when I was actually deluded enough to think that hotpants were
a) Sexy, and…
b) acceptable anywhere other than a Sean Paul music video

But I have good legs so I guess I just had to work it.

So all was fine, (with frequent hiking down of the shorts hemline so as to hide my modesty), until I got round to squats. The technique I learnt from a personal trainer involves tugging the wire on the pulley machine in a “golf swing” motion before returning and dropping straight into a squat and then up again and swinging to the other side. It’s a killer. And everyone watches you when you do them anyway; and I can’t figure out whether it’s because you look gayer than Leslie Jordan at the ice capades or just because your ass triples in size when you drop it down low. Well, today they had a different reason to stare.

In my rush of getting dressed and throwing inappropriate Rollerdisco shorts into my gym bag, I’d also put on my tiniest underwear. So small that every time I wear them I feel like I’m flossing. I could have a Brazilian wax and my pubes would still sprout out the sides. I should throw them away, but I just keep forgetting. Well you can guarantee that after this day – they’re binned.

So I’m in my own world, living to some cheesy house track, and I feel a breeze…

gym-britney

The bird was out of the cage. I REPEAT. The bird was out of the cage! OK, not the whole bird, but one piece of veg was enough. Here I am squating and panting like I’m some hardcore athlete, taking myself dead serious like and the whole time my gonads had been dangling out my shorts.

gym-balls

I jumped up quicker than Katie Holmes after Tom Cruise “accidentally” put it in the wrong hole. Although the guy chewing his lip to stop him from smiling/cackling/salivating suggested I hadn’t been quick enough. Think it was best to leave the squats for today.

This was more embarrassing than that time some ratchet bitches stole my clothes while I was skinny dipping in Gran Canaria and had to mince back through the Yumbo at 10pm in just a towel. Bastards. So I slunk off into the changing room with my tail – and testicles – between my legs. After my shower I was still marginally mortified, and just when I thought I was the laughing stock of the gym, I was literally saved by the ball.

The guy next to me was one of those guys that doesn’t take his towel off when he’s putting his underwear on and you could see the sheer panic in his face that his towel might fall. Because God forbid the other lads in the changing room seem your junk. He was trying to do it quickly, but the material was twisting where his legs were still damp and you could see he was getting flustered. As he pulled them up with one final heave and his towel dropped to the floor, his giblets sprung out the side of his briefs and I swear he went redder than a period. I felt for him, but whatever, that was so me ten minutes ago.

All it teaches you is that for every wardrobe malfunction you have, it will only be a short time until a body-shy Greek man makes you realise it’s just not the end of the world.

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