notes from meltdown central

London is a famously rude place.  By which I mean, among other things, that commuting to work in London is a lot like entering a war zone where it's every man for himself and devil take the hindmost.  A pregnant woman who uses the Tube during the rush hour has as much chance of decent and considerate treatment as a rabbit in the middle of the M25, and as for taking small children on the commute, you'd have to be mad.  But all of this rudeness and door-slamming and elbowing looks like the essence of dignified politeness compared to the way people here at meltdown central behave at the gym.

Gyms were suffering a bit in the pre-bonus period as a result of people looking around for ways to cut their spending, but they're bouncing back now with a vengeance following a series of aggressive discounting campaigns.  Then there's the fact that spring really does seem to be around the corner, and all those grim-faced thirty-somethings are out there desperately trying to whip their already frighteningly taut bodies into utmost shape for the day, not too distant, when they have to start uncovering bits they consider unshapely.   The rudeness rules at the gym are so rigidly enforced, it's almost comical to watch.  The first and most noticeable is the rule of No Eye Contact.  This is essential if you are to behave as if you are the only person on the planet, which seems to be necessary while you pound the treadmill or pump unfeasibly large amounts of iron.  (Except for eye contact with your Personal Trainer, in which case you will have loud conversation too, to draw attention to the fact that you've got one).  The second is the rule of No Physical Contact, which is tricky to maintain while stuffing your underwear into tiny little lockers centimeters away from the other people making No Eye Contact.  The third rule is definitely No Smiling or Laughing.  Try giving a chuckle as you fail to stand on one leg in a Pilates class and you will draw looks that could turn Medusa to stone. The fourth rule is Stay Out of my Space.  In the pool this means ploughing up and down like a mad whale, sighing loudly and overtaking slower swimmers while splashing them in the face, but making a formal complaint to the lifeguard if someone has the temerity not to swim laps clockwise; everywhere else it means shouldering others aside to get at the shower/sauna/steam room/mirrors and looking daggers at anyone who gets between you and your locker.   And for women at least (I can't comment on what goes on in the men's changing rooms) the last rule is definitely Do Not Be Ugly. This means spending at least as much time as you did exercising, walking around in your thong, brushing your hair and gazing adoringly at yourself in mirrors.  If you happen to be Old, like me, and have to spend most of your lap time in the pool avoiding being knocked unconscious by triathloners wearing metal gloves,  it is particularly trying to have to run the gauntlet of pitying glances as you scoot into your clothes.  

Finally, at the end of this ordeal of selfishness, you must leave as you arrived, grim-faced, ignoring the cheery farewells of the sweet-faced kids on the reception desk, returning to the benevolent world of the London Tube or bus, where people are at least allowed to acknowledge each other's existence.  The Masters of the Universe haven't gone away.  They've just been to the gym.

Once again I have Gemma to thank for today's picture, which illustrates the dangers of swallowing bubble gum while exercising.