Two years ago, during the summer time, it was a major turning point for me, I was ripped to shreds at work by this half woman half demon type thing, who thought she could talk to me as she would to scold 6th graders who had just set off fireworks in the bathrooms or something similar. In my opinion I had done nothing of this calibre to provoke this attack. After this nightmare I crawled back inside myself and festered there for several months, but not before a little trip to the doctors for him to prescribe exercise. What? I wanted medication and he told me to join a gym.
According to him, exercise would make me feel happier. I’m gazing vacantly at the white wall of the shower rooms recalling this little bit of information, and wondering how it can be possible, seen as I’m not happy. I’m dressed in gym gear, glistening slightly and not really feeling it. To be perfectly honest I’ve just bounced around like a tub of jelly on a treadmill/cross trainer etc for forty five minutes and forgive me if I can’t crack a smile at how shitty I feel at the moment.
I got nothin’! I feel bloated, huge and I’m clearly not losing any weight. I’m stressed out from looking for a parking space, and at the thought of the rush hour traffic I’ll have to endure on the way home. I’m annoyed at how much this place costs to come here for an hour and fight for equipment. At which point am I meant to feel happy about this doc?
Even if it doesn’t work emotionally, it doesn’t seem to work physically either, I’m the same if not slightly bigger than when I started, not even toned or a better shape. So I’ll ask again, when is it supposed to get better? It seems like never. It’s not hurting me to do it but I expect a doctor to tell me something far more useful than join a gym, perhaps I’m too far gone to be saved by simple remedies. Who knows? The doctor clearly doesn’t.