Renewing the gym membership is a little victory

They took the debit card details over the phone. I’d successfully renewed a gym membership for the first time. It feels good. Any eejit can join a gym, but in the world of the dilettante the renewed man is king.

It reminds me of those countries which have been under dictatorship and then have their first elections. That bit’s easy. There’s the euphoria of the new, the promise of the future. There’s the UN observers telling you you’re a great fella altogether.

But what happens after his term is up and the former colonel-turned politician, who has discarded his medals-covered khaki in favour of a grey suit, has to keep his promise, trust the electorate and have the second elections.

The key thing in newly democracratised countries — and gym membership — is to set expectations low initially. I joined for a month and now I’m renewing for three months. Baby steps I know, but gymocracy is fragile in the former Yugoslav Republic of Colmadonia.

The other key thing is not to be discouraged by apparent lack of progress. Some say the best way is to overcome adversity, tackle it head on. Or you could avoid, just go to the pool.

The thing about the gym I’m in is that they’re all too bloody good at it. In some gyms you’ll see odd-shaped people like me with their non-sports socks with the day of the week written on them, runners from a German supermarket that look like Nike but aren’t, shorts that are probably swimming togs and an old faded black Sawdoctors T-shirt. Not here. Everyone’s got the gear. They’re all hoovering up the protein shakes. And because it’s close to the city centre, it’s quite multicultural. The people look good. Not like a room full of Wayne Rooneys.

I can’t compete with these yet. I don’t have their intensity.

I’m not interested at the moment in ‘reps’ or Xfit or BODYPUNISH.

I can’t muster the haunted expression of the fella next to me in the changing room strapping on some leather hand-thing for lifting weights as if he’s a gladiator about to fight a Phoenician with a trident.

No, I’m going to the pool. Me and the ould lads and those recovering from operations.

Men with backs so hairy, they should be applauded and tattoos of football teams that have since gone into administration. It’s quiet there.

There are still the muffled Trump-rally sounds from the spin-zumba-body-attack-AAAAAHgh class in the room on the other side of the glass, but otherwise it’s peaceful. There’s no one to compete with.

Yeah, ok, maybe the ould lad is swimming faster than me but in fairness it’s a good month since the transplant. Occasionally an Adonis – no that’s his name, I think he’s Greek – will carve through the water like he’s saving a dolphin but mostly we’re left alone.

It’s not like I can swim properly or anything. I could probably hold my own if I fell into a stationary lake of 30 degrees Celsius and of depth 1.2 metres but that’ll do for now.

And until they bring in waterproof smartphones, it’s actually a place where I can really think. It’s where I thought up this gem of an article so you can see already that you’re in for some Pulitzer Prize-winning stuff over the next few months.

Maybe when I’ve built up a Michael Phelps-like manta ray body I’ll venture in the gym with a t-shirt with fierce wide sleeves and random bits of strapping around my elbow. But for now, I’ll just be content with feeling renewed.