At 45, I decided it was time.
Time to embrace health.
Time to reclaim my youth.
Time to become the sort of person who says things like, “I’ll just pop to the gym.”
Now, in hindsight, I realise what I meant to type into my phone was “Google gin,” not “join gym.” A simple vowel miscalculation. A tragic, muscle-pulling vowel.
But there I was. Signed up. Inducted. Given a tour by a 23-year-old named Jake who said things like “Let’s wake those glutes up!” as if my glutes had merely been having a light nap since 1998.
I nodded confidently at equipment that looked like medieval punishment devices.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “I’ve seen these before.”
(I had not seen these before.)
I began enthusiastically. Ten minutes on the treadmill. A gentle jog. A pace I described to myself as “athletic.” A pace the treadmill described as “barely moving.”
Then came the weights.
Now, when you’re 45, you approach dumbbells with the optimism of your 18-year-old self and the joints of someone who once slept funny and needed three business days to recover.
But I persevered. Because I am mature. I am disciplined. I am a serious student with TMA04 looming over me like an academic thundercloud.
I left the gym feeling triumphant. Energised. Possibly invincible.
The next morning, however, I attempted to get out of bed.
Friends.
I did not get out of bed.
I rolled out of bed like a fallen oak tree.
Every muscle I have — including several I am fairly sure were installed overnight — announced themselves with dramatic flair. My thighs staged a protest. My arms refused basic instructions. Even my eyebrows felt tight.
I shuffled to the bathroom like a Victorian ghost.
Stairs? A betrayal.
Sitting down? A negotiation.
Standing up again? A strategic operation requiring planning and emotional resilience.
And somewhere between lowering myself onto the sofa with the precision of a NASA landing and realising I couldn’t lift my tea without whimpering, I thought:
Why.
Why did I think this was a good idea?
At this age, you don’t “feel the burn.”
You “experience the administrative consequences of the burn.”
Naturally, I declared I would never return.
This was clearly a moment of temporary insanity. A midlife blip. A delusion brought on by excessive exposure to motivational reels.
But then — and this is the problem — someone tells me I shouldn’t.
“You’ll ache more if you don’t go back.”
“You have to push through.”
“It gets easier.”
And suddenly, I am no longer a sensible 45-year-old adult with responsibilities and a heating bill.
I am a stubborn teenager.
Oh, I shouldn’t go back?
Watch me.
So I booked the next session.
Yes, my body is currently communicating exclusively in creaks.
Yes, I lower myself into chairs like I’m diffusing a bomb.
Yes, I briefly considered installing stairlifts on all three steps into my house.
But here’s the thing — beneath the stiffness, beneath the theatrical groaning — there’s the tiniest flicker of pride.
Because I went.
Because I tried.
Because even at 45, with TMA04 whispering ominously in the background, I decided to do something mildly heroic and deeply inconvenient.
Will it give me more energy?
Possibly.
Will it give me determination?
Almost certainly.
Will I accidentally Google “gin” again?
Also possible.
But for now, I shall stretch dramatically, sip water like a professional athlete, and prepare for round two — moving slightly slower than last time, but significantly more suspicious of stairs.
If nothing else, the gym has taught me this:
I may be stiff.
I may be sore.
But I am still gloriously, magnificently stubborn.
And honestly?
That counts as cardio.