Youngsters too busy preening to work out
I’M in my forties and don’t go to pubs, so the gym is my haven.
I would rather have a freezing dip in the ice bath to raise my dopamine levels than wine o’clock.
Last week my partner was away, so I hired a babysitter so I could escape the house and hit the spa at the gym.
Swimsuit and towel in tow, my excitement dissipated when I entered the hot zone – the scene was akin to Ibiza Uncovered meets Love Island.
The place was rammed with hot bodies, I felt like a granny amidst a sea of twentysomethings, preened and pruned to within an inch of their lives.
Noting that I needed to get my legs waxed, I conceded that they must be too busy checking each other out to waste time gawking at a frazzled mammy.
It suddenly dawned on me, I’ve never been to the spa after 8pm. I’m usually there on a Sunday with all the older folk after yoga.
My spa crew are close to retirement age, therefore I’m not used to the posing posse.
Cellulite does not exist in their world.
There’s a machine on the gym floor called the Booty Builder, I now see why it’s so popular.
The more bum on show the better, the bikini clad bods on show were ripped, the muscle men pumping their biceps.
There are three hot beds in the spa. I was dreaming of a bit of meditation on one of those bad boys.
Alas I was not getting near one, there were two blondes sharing a bed, arms slung around each other.
There was a guy on the bed next to them checking out his Instagram.
The sauna is bright and felt like a half naked nightclub, the raucous laughter meant I got no reprieve in there.
The only bit of peace I got was in the steam room where the posers daren’t enter – because nobody can see you in there.
I dipped into the jacuzzi in a fit of hysterics, feeling like the withered auld one in There’s Something About Mary, minus the tan.
I chuckled alone as the hot bodies pranced around me like something out of a Vegas pool party.
Admittedly I didn’t feel zen leaving... but at least I had a good laugh.