Home is no place for a workout, so thank goodness gyms have reopened | Steve Canavan

Thank the lord gyms have reopened.
If only exercising at home was this calm and easy in the Canavan household. Picture by ShutterstockIf only exercising at home was this calm and easy in the Canavan household. Picture by Shutterstock
If only exercising at home was this calm and easy in the Canavan household. Picture by Shutterstock

It means Mrs Canavan can go there to do her workouts rather than doing them at home.

You see, what’s happened in the past few months of lockdown is that our house – just so my wife can continue her exercise regime – has been turned into a kind of makeshift gym.

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Indeed when I arrived home the other night there were lockers installed in the hall and a guy sat in the lounge asking to see my membership card.

I exaggerate, obviously, but it is true to state that I’ve lost count of the number of times during lockdown I’ve walked into the kitchen and been greeted by the sight of Mrs C’s not inconsiderable derriere protruding into the air – like a large hot air balloon hovering in the room – as she wheezes away trying to touch her toes or contort her body into some other unnatural position.

As if this wasn’t disturbing enough, a few feet away, perched on a shelf, is an iPad, from which blares incredibly loud dance music and an over-enthusiastic fitness instructor shouting things like: ‘Come on people, feel the burn,’ and: ‘No regrets, leave it all here on the floor, you got this, LET’S GOOOOOOOO!’

This is all very well, and I suppose motivating to the person doing the workout, but for others in the house it’s not ideal.

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I mean it’s difficult to give the Antiques Roadshow the attention it deserves when in the background you can hear a woman shrieking: ‘Come on ladies, let’s work that coccyx.’

Whenever I enter the kitchen while she’s exercising, Mrs Canavan always seems oblivious to the fact I’m there (which, in fairness, because of the volume of the ear-splitting music and the fact she has her back turned away from me, she probably is), and simply continues doing planks or downward dogs or pelvic perks or whatever exercise move with a ridiculous name she’s in the middle of.

She does all this on a mat right in the centre of the room so there is no way for me to get round her, and besides I don’t want to get too close because she’s dripping with sweat and smells not unlike a piece of cheese dropped behind a radiator and discovered eight months later.

‘Erm, darling,’ I say, ‘would you mind stopping wafting your bottom around for a moment so I can get past?’

No answer.

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‘COME ON, you don’t do this to get strong, you do this to get stronger!’ bellows the fitness instructor from the iPad, as the relentless monotonous beat of the dance music gets just a little louder.

‘Darling,’ I say more firmly. ‘Would you mind if I got past you?’

Again, no answer from Mrs Canavan, who is now jumping up and down and punching the air while wheezing like an asthmatic hedgehog with a heart condition.

‘Woop, woop,’ screams the fitness instructor, ‘that’s it, let’s go go go’.

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I’ve been stood here for almost a full minute now and have had enough.

‘LIZ (for that’s her name),’ I yell at the top of my voice.

‘WILL YOU MOVE OUT OF THE BLOODY WAY PLEASE?’

She hears this – as do, I suspect, most of the street – and turns her head in my direction with a look of compete disdain, as if incredibly naffed off I’m interrupting her.

‘Do you have to come in when I’m exercising?’ she asks, tutting and shaking her head, causing several big beads of sweat to fly onto the kitchen floor.

(I make a mental note of where they’ve landed and will get the Dettol spray out later.)

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It’s around this point I’m tempted to embark on a lengthy speech reminding her that I cover the majority of the monthly mortgage payments and, therefore – and call me selfish here – but I feel entitled to be able to gain access to my own kitchen when I desire.

I must admit a tiny part of me does envy Mrs C.

I wish I was a little more disciplined and had the motivation to do these keep fit classes.

I went to a men-only pilates session in a church hall about five years ago and once I’d got over the discomfort of being on the adjacent mat to a man wearing a pair of shorts so tight I could instantly tell which size box he’d require should he ever play a cricket match, I actually thoroughly enjoyed it and felt great afterwards.

Alas, something came up the following week, I didn’t go, and then I kind of lost the enthusiasm.

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Mrs Canavan did say I could join in with her keep fit sessions at home but can you imagine if we had to answer the door halfway through and the Amazon delivery man saw us dressed in gym gear heavily perspiring?

It’s not worth the loss of dignity.

So, all in all, thank the lord gyms have reopened their doors and Mrs C can now exercise to her heart’s content there.

And not in our kitchen.

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