Where is Rowena?

Rather like the Snorlax, mine is a body unsuited to athleticism in general. I'm abnormally clumsy, uncoordinated and lacking in dexterity – not in an endearing, Zooey Deschanel way but in a way that has led multiple people to tentatively ask me if I have a disability. It always took me a lot longer than everyone else to get the hang of a sport, and apparently my father had to look up alternative methods to teach me to ride a bike because I couldn't master it the conventional way. When I lived at home with my parents and had instant access to their considerable financial resources, I didn't let that stop me. I was a pretty keen badminton player throughout secondary school, and, even though after seven years of playing twice a week I only managed to get to a just-about-acceptable standard, I thoroughly enjoyed the game. Sadly, this stopped when I reached university and I discovered I had to shell out hundreds of pounds for a University of Bristol sports pass if I wanted to join any clubs or use the gym. This led to my standards slipping so much that I would now have to join a beginner club if I wanted to resume playing, and they are surprisingly difficult to find if you are over the age of twelve. My fitness also eroded away with my badminton skills, leading me to become increasingly sedentary, not to mention increasingly chubby.

Not long after I started earning my own money I decided it was time to try this exercising thing again, and I joined a gym. I strategically picked a cheap one that was on my walk to and from work, thinking that the convenience would motivate me to go (optimistic as I am, I am not stupid enough to even consider the possibility that I would drag myself to the gym on a Saturday or Sunday). One year and almost £200 later, I have cancelled my membership. Why? Because I hate the gym.

My God, do I hate the gym. I hate it with all my soul. I hate the gym almost as much as I hate raisins and a bit more than I hate the typeface Curlz. Please don't take this hatred lightly and assume that I haven't given the gym a chance. I really, really tried to like the gym. I desperately tried to enjoy running on a conveyor belt while staring at the same spot on the wall and trying to repress the fear that I was going to damage my shins, like every single person I know who runs has done. I spent hours on the cross-trainer trying not to become angry about this weird running-cycling hybrid that feels less effective but no more fun than either one. I even wandered over to the weight machines a few times before realising there was no way in Hell I was going to work out how to operate them without seriously injuring myself, and slinking away in embarrassment. But it wasn't enough. None of it was enough.

Of course I felt good having been to the gym, but mostly in a self-congratulatory way rather than feeling genuinely invigorated. I certainly never left feeling good enough to actually motivate myself to go more than once a week (at best). As for endorphins, I have not experienced them. I believe that they are a lie made up by the medical community in an attempt to battle our society's obesity problem. What other people call "endorphins" I call "the feeling of joy you experience when you realise it's finally time to leave the gym".

For a long time I allowed my hatred of the gym to make me feel despondent. I felt like exercise wasn't for me, it never would be, and the only way I would ever shift the flab on my arms and belly was by cutting out all my favourite foods, and therefore all the joy in my life. But then one day, in an impulsive act, the reasons for which I don't actually remember, I spontaneously signed up to an organisation called Move GB. I've known about Move GB for a while but resisted it as it cost more than double my old gym membership, and I didn't see the point in paying more money for something I hate. Move GB calls itself a "fitness membership", and for your money you can attend a certain number of activities a week. This can be going to the gym or to a swimming pool, but I was more interested in the classes, which ranged from yoga to rock climbing to aerial circus skills, which I almost signed up for before remembering my aforementioned lack of coordination and debilitating fear of heights.

I managed to fight an initial burst of optimistic foolishness to go for the £40/month "unlimited activities" plan, and instead opted to take up to three classes per week for slightly less money. Based on an article on the NHS website and a couple of sessions with my then-housemate's hoop in the part of St Andrew's Park that always smells of cannabis, I chose pilates and hula hooping. I'm only a month in but I already love both of them. In the last four weeks I've done more exercise than I think I have since the beginning of 2016, even if a large portion of that exercise is lying on the floor stretching. My abdominal muscles, which have been neglected for twenty-three years, have been brought screaming into the world. While it is a bit miserable to experience a sharp jolt of pain whenever you laugh, it's satisfying actually feeling some kind of result. The only result I ever noticed from my gym sessions was what I have dubbed "sweat fringe", which is when my fringe gets wet and divides itself into five or six smaller fringes. It's unattractive, and it can also be achieved by walking to work on a humid day.

There are a few reasons why I think I've taken to classes with more enthusiasm than the gym. The first is that there's a set time and a place to go to, which means I can't wake up in the morning feeling lazy and think, "I'll just go tomorrow instead." Monday and Wednesday are hula hooping days, and Thursday is pilates day, and if I don't stick to this plan I get charged a cancellation fee. So far I've not missed any classes. Secondly, as much as I refused to admit this as a teenager, I benefit hugely from being told what to do. Around twenty-five per cent of my time at the gym was spent drifting around looking at all the equipment and not really wanting to go on any of it. In a class I have an instructor telling me what to do and how to do it, which means I spend the entire hour exercising, whether I like it or not. The most important thing, though, is that I actually enjoy the exercise that I'm doing. I never enjoyed running or lifting heavy things, which made going to the gym feel like an arduous and highly unappealing task, and motivating myself to go was extremely difficult. By contrast, it's pretty much impossible not to have fun hula hooping. I even tried Google image searching "miserable hula hooper", but everyone pictured looked happy. Let's be honest, an activity that shares its name with one of the best kinds of crisp can only be a good thing.

We all know that exercise is good for us, and with my penchant for dairy products and family history of heart disease I've always felt that I should put more effort than I do into my fitness. For the first time in at least five years, I'm actually enjoying exercising, which isn't something I ever thought was going to happen. Whether I'll be able to sustain this enthusiasm remains to be seen, but, as I said, I managed to keep badminton up for seven years, despite being absolutely terrible for at least four of them. Not to mention the fact that sticking with the classes means that I will never have to go back to the gym. I can't think of a better motivation than that.