The giant vibrator

Ow. I can barely walk. Ow ow ow ow ow ow. Everytime I sit down, every time I try to stand up, and, ESPECIALLY every time I try to bend over, ow. Ow ow ow.

The is all the fault of the giant vibrator.
The giant vibrating thing.
The giant thing, that vibrates.
In my gym.

Perhaps I should explain. Theres a giant vibrator in my gym.
Anyone can use it. You just go along, book a private session and there you are, Bobs your vibrator!
Well, no, if were being accurate, Bob is my boyfriend.
The large plastic/metal thing with the magic powers in the back room of Lady Tastic Womens Only Gym; Brighton branch) is your vibrator. If Bobs your vibrator, well be having words. Because I dont want all of you (or any) to do to my beloved what I do to that poor industrial device at the gym.
He might get hurt.

I should probably explain the giant vibrator.

The giant vibrator is a revolutionary vibrating advance in vibratory science. You mount it, strike a pose, and let the giant vibrating vibrator do all the work for you: it does in a matter of minutes what it would generally take HOURS to do manually. Or thats what the information says.

Madonna loves it.
She cant get enough of it, apparently; so you know it must be great.
Not that she loves the one at my gym, I mean. I mean, I dont even know if she uses the one at my gym. Ive certainly not seen her there. Yet.
But I know she likes exercise, so I fully expect shell be there soon.

I should probably explain about my gym first.
I know Ive been mentioning it on and off, for the last month or so, but the plain, honest truth is; though I never ever would have thought it might happen, I suddenly joined the gym.

Im sure Ill explain more in that its-alright-to-be-you-sized book Ill be writing as soon as someone thinks Im vaguely capable of writing (a book). But I joined the gym because

I dont know why I joined the gym.

There is a long and complex story about joining, but it is not funny, it is just QUITE ODD. I will tell it elsewhere. Perhaps in my non-awaited book about how its not a crime to have a large arse, is it? Anyway. Whyever I joined, I joined. And I go a few times a week, not that youd know it to look at me, or, in fact, not that youd know it to try my test-jeans on, either. But I go, and I really enjoy it. Which is odd, because I previously would have thought that Id enjoy going to the gym as much as Id enjoy having my tits sanded. And enjoy it a Lot More than that.

They may have brainwashed me. Possibly with peroxide.

It makes me feel all bouncy. There is no discernable difference to the size of my enormous arse whatsoever, but so, well, whatever: I like it anyway. I have noticed, though, in the several weeks of cycling on the cycle-nowhere machines and fast-walking on the fast-walk-nowhere machines and weirdy-cross-training on the well-you-get-the-idea machines that in rooms adjascent to the one I usually use, there are other machines. Special machines.

These are machines that promise to make you toned (read: THINNER!) quicker, without all that nasty effort and time and sweaty patches etc.

I first tried the toney tables. Which are, the bunny who showed me round declared, pretty pointless, but old people REALLY like them. Ive been on them a couple of times, when mammoth day-off, avoiding-doing-proper-work gym sessions have led straight to their pointless door.

Basically they involve lying down and having your body parts mindlessly manipulated by the moving parts of moronic robotic furniture.

On my favourite one, which is the most amusing if, yes, admittedly pointless (although amusing is a point in itself, isnt it? Otherwise why am I HERE fergoodnessake?) exercise, in the loosest sense of the word, the tonee (me) does some lying down, supine, and the toner (machine) moves the tonees buttocks around for her.

It was funny. I had no idea, until that moment, that what Id been missing in life was a machine that moved my buttocks around for me, and it was a revelation. I mean, Im not sure if missing is the right word, really. Or revelation. That moved my buttocks around section of the sentence was pretty spot on, though.

So there you are, nonchalantly lying around, robotic twirlers shifting your batty-cakes up and down, clutching your tummy muscles and your backfanny ones alternately, because in this case, its resistance that makes all the difference to the process.

And yet, as were all too, too aware, resistance is useless.
And so it seems to be here: at least 54 minutes all told on the bloody things, and not an inch shifted. Not a bit of an inch. Not an in. Or even a ch. Im left with nothing more than a strange tingly feeling in my nether regions, and an inscrutable smile.

Mona Lisa? She was having her buttocks moved around, I tell you.

Anyway, all that has nothing to do with the giant vibrator. Im not sure that anything has much to do with the giant vibrator, or, in fact, if the giant vibrator has much to do with anything. It wobbles, you stand on it. You wobble. Your wobbly bits wobble. Your innards wobble. Your eyeballs wobble. You become convined that the only way this might function as a weight loss aid is through the fact youre going to vomit, heavily.

Then you get off, and realise that you dont think that its done anything of any use, so you get on it again, and crank up the rate of vibration, perform an lunge, and do it again. Then you do it again, with another lunge. Then you have an all-over body-wobble. The you lie on the floor, prop your feet on the platform, offer your hips up to the gods, and wobble some more.

You leave the gym feeling pleasantly vibrated.

One hour and one train-ride later, you discover that someones replaced your muscles with toffee. The usually perfectly well behaved stairs at your office destination suddenly decide to put up a fight.

And the next day, you cant move. I cant bend over. Or under. Im fine to get on down (on to, say, chairs), but getting on up again is a different proposition altogether. My bottom is grumpy. My backthighs hate me. I think I just heard my abdominal muscles tut.

So, beware anything that says Power Plate, people. Beware the giant vibrator.
These things were sent to cripple us.

Im going on it again tomorrow.