STAYING FIT IN FOREST

Still nothing to brag about jobwise. Instead of complaining about the fact that, for the time being, nobody wants to employ such a fab professional as myself, I'll tell you about another aspect of getting a life in Brussels. Namely, the gym.

There are some good points about leaving Africa, you'd think. For one thing, you can find a cheap gym close to your home, which will offer BodyCombat courses to your heart's content (and a swimming pool for your boyfriend, ideally). Well, not so fast. I'll have you know that most gyms are located in the distant land of far far away, they are expensive and, to top it all off, they offer neither BodyCombat nor swimming (am I too demanding? Try BodyCombat first and then judge me).

And thus I had to settle for the next best thing. My new fitness club is very close to our house in the lovely neighbourhood of Forest, and it's relatively cheap. Cheaper than the other ones anyway. And as staying fit (or, let's not fool ourselves, shall we? - getting fit again) is as important for my mental health as work, I decided to invest my precious euros in the abonement.

The reception desk is usually empty. If you lean over the counter, however, you'll notice a huge enormous gigantic dog, whom the owner dismissively refers to as ma Fifi. I've been there twice so far, and the dog did not seem to move during the time I was absent.

The first class is free, so I decided to check out what is interestingly called Aerosteps. I walked in and the room was already filled with girls. They all know one another, as it often happens in small gyms, and they were in the middle of a lively conversation on whether the course instructor (who turned out to be the receptionist and owner of the big enormous dog, by the way), would appreciate their way of distributing the steps. Apprehensive, seeing that the instructor was ten minutes late, they invented several excuses for him, and were not at all indignant at the light way in which he takes his responsibilities. Instead, they commented on how busy he must be. Are they paying customers?, I asked myself.

But here he comes, he enters the room, energy in every move, the obvious star of the show. No apologies for his tardiness are offered. All the ladies, apart from me, the innocent new girl, automatically start doing semi-sit-ups, as if it were a ritual greeting they performed every time they saw the instructor. Too busy trying not to burst out laughing, I don't notice that the instructor is already frowning in my direction, to make me join in the fitness ritual. I have no choice, and I start bending my knees in the same ridiculous way. When the half-god, half-fitness instructor has seen enough, we move on to the actual class. It's schematic, rather boring but I must admit it's an honest effort. I have been in pain for two days.

The problem is that the instructor didn't really do anything during the class. He just shouted a lot, played with his mobile and made fun of us (probably his way of motivating girls). He didn't show one single move, and the other ladies were so well trained that they knew exactly what came next. Not to mention the looks of utter admiration they directed towards the lazy instructor...

All in all, I have found my gym. The pro&con list says I have no other option for now. Staring at the dog is an obvious pro, of course. And the fact that I felt I'd worked out. If only I could solve the mystery of the instructor's popularity, though... Oh well, I'll keep you posted.

The picture comes from here.