Time to renovate the temple

Let the record state, dear reader, that while this column is about the gym, I am not a fan of working out and at the rate I'm going, never will be.

I'm not one of those people who go on holiday and then hit the gym. The most exercise I get while on holiday is stretching my arm to reach for a cocktail.

However, because the food I actually enjoy eating likes to make friends with my thighs, I've had to subject myself to the gym experience. In the end, vanity is the ruler of all things. And it's due to this affliction that I find myself reluctantly going each week. I can't think of a place stranger than a gym - a bunch of strangers sweating, grunting and getting naked in front of each other to the sound of David Guetta's Who's That Chick.

The first thing you notice when you start going to the gym is the under-current of fierce competitiveness from some of the members. I love those people who check how fast you're going on the treadmill and then look over at you to see whether the speed at which you're going matches the sweat on your forehead. I've noticed that it's mostly the runners who like to do this, as if to remind themselves of how superior they are. Whatever, dude: unless your name is Bruce Fordyce, you're running for an audience of one.

Then of course, while some of us are there to fight the flab, some use the gym as a dating service. Ever had that guy who insists on talking to you while you're getting your workout? My weapon for such men is my beloved iPod. Unfortunately sometimes even that doesn't deter them. But it's not just the men - oooh, the women can make you cringe, too. You know the girls I'm talking about: full-on make-up (fake eyelashes and all), the tightest tights and a gym bra that accentuates their ample bosom. Once they've walked around the gym, making sure that members of the opposite sex nearly drop dumbbells on their feet from staring too hard, they then get on the treadmill, flicking their hair and moaning slightly. You might as well be watching a porno. (Sexercising with Estelle sounds like a good name for a porno flick, don't you think?)

Yet even the public displays of hotness are not as painful as some of the things that one sees in the change rooms. My best are the fat girls who walk around freely and leave their towels on the floor. Man, I wish I had that kind of confidence. Whenever I see them, I always steal a glimpse of their goods and sometimes find myself thinking: "Damn, I didn't know they make them that big." Oh come on, don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. The fat girls are just as bad as the skinny girls who know they've got it going on and don't mind if you watch them as they put lotion on their perfect legs as though auditioning for a Dove advert.

When I'm in the change room, the towel is my best friend. Who knows, maybe if I had a body like J.Lo I could risk being a show-off, but for now, the towel and I are closer than Khanyi Mbau and her weave. Public nakedness, even if it is to help renovate your temple, is very awkward.

Even with all my cynicism, though, I understand why they created the gym. I imagine that sisters got tired of having construction workers behind trucks shout "Gijima s'dudla!" (run, fattie!) at them because they're trying to get into shape. It's a very funny thing, but black people just don't understand why you're running in the street at 6am simply because you want to lose weight. When I used to walk in the mornings I would get the "girl, just sell your car and you'll see, you'll lose all that weight" looks.

The reality for most of us is that our bodies need some kind of exercise and if you're like me (that is, you hate to walk, run, sweat, etc) the gym becomes a necessary evil. At the moment my temple is looking a little dilapidated and since I don't want it to be mistaken for one of those crack houses in a Spike Lee joint, I'm going to have to hit the gym. May the Force be with me! Well at least until I get that threatening e-mail about my membership being cancelled.