Firstly, I’d like to dedicate this blog to my dearly beloved bingo wings. Bingo wings, my sweethearts, together we’ve been through the thick and thin (crust pizzas). You’ve always been there to keep me warm throughout the harsh winters, and it forever pains me that I will no longer be able to vigorously shake you in the mirror to amuse myself.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and through my recently acquired gym membership, I am deeply saddened to say that I am slowly toning you into lean muscle (actually, more like a slightly soft orange, but that’s still an improvement).
You may find yourself somewhat perplexed by the name of this blog. “Jucy Loe Loe?!” I hear you cry, “is that some kind of exotic fruit?!”. Well you need hold your breath no longer. Jucy Loe Loe is in fact the wonderful fusion of the names Joe and Lucy, my friend with whom I attend the gym, and we think it sounds like a rather fabulous drag queen. What could be more ideal?
I have, in fact, been regularly attending gym classes since November. I like to think I’ve improved, as the instructor has stopped ferociously correcting my every movement, but it’s probably more likely that she has lost all hope and has accepted that I’ll never be able to do a squat without looking like a constipated toad. I find it most enjoyable though, even if my flat is up four flights of stairs and I often find myself contemplating spending the entirety of my erasmus grant on having a stairlift installed.
Despite having attended for over three months, we are still yet to work out what each one of the actions are actually called. One move in particular, called “estiro” (stretch) confused us both in very different ways. I thought the instructor was saying “vestido” (dress) and I was furiously pondering why I was hurling my arms above my head to represent a fashionable garment of clothing, and Lucy thought she was saying “estilo” (style), and assumed us to be throwing stylish shapes in the air to release some tension after some tough hamstring stretches.
Another word we’re yet to crack signals the quick movement of our bar weights over our thighs. I am beyond convinced that she is shouting “bolsa” (bag), indicating a ritual-like shopping gesture in which women exercise their handbag holding muscles. Obviously I excel in this one.
It pleases me greatly to report that the music during these sessions is most adequate. At first, I found it to be a cacophonous wall of unpleasant noise; a relentless beat with no more melody than my four year old cousin would be able to produce through trying to play a tune by blowing into a hammer (actually happened). However, no less than two weeks ago, a fellow member of the gym – one of the most camp men I have ever witnessed in my entire twenty years of being (he makes me look like Bruce Willis) (Actually, scratch that, there exists no universe in which I could ever be remotely straight. He makes me look like a lesbian), tampered with the music, and more and more Beyoncé has been sneaking its way into our workouts. I am very content.
I shall update the next time something I feel worthy of reporting happens. I don’t think it shall be very long as today, during a particularly violent knee thrust, I managed to salivate in my own eye.
Have a nice day.