Free Willy

There are very few times that I can recall being embarrassed. Honestly, there really are. Aside from the very rare occasions when I have vomited on a club dancefloor (once) or been rejected as I drunkenly lunged at the guy I fancied (definitely more than once), there are very few things that get me embarrassed, or at least embarrass me to the point that I can't hide it. My secret weapon in hiding any embarrassment, comes from the fact that I have never been a “blusher”. Of course it would be a lie to say I have never got a little hot in the face- like the time I had to serve a pint to a one night stand the morning after the night before - but all in all, I'm just not the blushing kinda gal and have taught myself to breathe and use humour to diffuse any awkward situation which in turn, leaves me looking (she says now doubting herself) cool, calm and collected until said awkward scenario is over and I can walk away...and try not to throw myself under the next moving vehicle.

Having said all of this, there are of course chinks in my outwardly impervious armour. There are of course things that no amount of breathing, fake laughing or joke making, can overcome. One such "thing" is my physique.

Now I'm not clinically obese by any stretch of the imagination, but from around the age of 12 when I first discovered my school's "tuck shop", my body and I have been engaged in an ongoing argument; I want to eat the whole tub of Ben and Jerry's, my body doesn't. Of course, I win every time, but like the devil incarnate, my body seeks its revenge for said gluttony and its punishment is unforgiving. Hello orange peel.

Now most real women that don’t grace the pages of Vogue have at one time or another faced the depressing reality that their body will stage a coup against them, so, being one of these real women means that most of the time the stretch marks on my thighs, or the cellulite on my bum doesn't get me too down. That was of course, until I found it on my arms.

Wibbling away in the Topshop dressing room with that cruel garish light showing up every bulge, I recently stood there in my underwear wondering where the slim outline of yesteryear had gone and questioning how I hadn’t noticed my body violating itself this past decade?! I mean sure, I couldn’t miss the purply lines stretching across my now rather Beyonce'd posterior, and yes I may have caught a glimpse of the cottage cheesed dimples my mother warned me of creeping slowly -but very self assuredly-across my thighs, but when oh when had my tummy got bigger than my tits!?! When had cellulite, which I was almost certain only ever invaded women's lower halves, managed to worm its way to my exposed torso! I mean give me a fucking break here, on the bum is bad enough but at least that pain can be lessened with the right knickers or some mood lighting! But the arms! When and how had it got to the arms!! With a lump throated call to Annie and admittedly a little tear, I came to a crossroads in my life; it was either go to the gym and do something about this beastly disease, or wear a polo neck everyday for the rest of my life. Decisions, decisions…

So last week I did the unthinkable, and booked myself in for a trial at the gym.

After about 10 minutes on the treadmill (setting 2 clearly- you don't want to be too overzealous on the first day, that's how injuries happen), I decided I'd get a better workout- and could perhaps ease the leg muscle I was sure I had just pulled- if I tried the Olympic size pool they had to offer. That meant one thing and one thing only…a bikini.

Shit.

Now for me to continue with this story, I need to first describe the gym/pool set up, just so we can all get a clear picture of the horror that is my everyday, sod's law life.

At this swanky famous health centre, the gym overlooks the swimming pool so when you’re exercising, you can look down onto the pool itself- something which provides much amusement when you’re jogging on a machine and see some beast trying to butterfly- but also rather intimidating when you're suddenly the one in the bikini trying to sly it out of the water with, let's face it, a sucked in tummy highlighted by the less than flattering light.

Now, back to the horror at hand. Having managed to skulk through the changing room, towel wrapped firmly around me so the surrounding fitness freaks aren't disgusted, I slip into the water almost unnoticed. The pool is empty except for me and some slim-lined show off with a swimcap. She thinks she's a pro, I think she's a twat. With a great body. Damnit.

So there I am ten minutes later gliding through the water- okay not so much gliding as red in the face, viciously breathing in an attempt to keep myself afloat- when I look up to see none other than my brother's best friend and thus my childhood fantasy (that didn't stop at childhood) looking down on me from the gym above. Through chlorined eyes I do a double take.

It can't be him.

Oh fuck shit bollocks it most definitely is.

Weights in hand, like a bewildered Adonis he's staring at me from above, and within a moment the recognition on his face means only one thing. He knows it’s me. The pasty rotund girl in the centre of the swimming pool is me.

I died.

Heart in mouth, stomach flipping, hair in a bun, make up down face, IN A BIKINI. Ground, for the love of God, open. Though I couldn't see myself, I can guarantee that at this point my secret "I’m not a blusher" armour went flying out the fucking window. If only it had been heavy enough to drown me. Feeling as though I had just rubbed deep heat on my face I would go as far as to say I had turned a dark purple colour. Aubergine if you will.

So now I bet your wondering, what the hell did I do? Did I swim furiously away, lunge up that stupid little ladder and save the last shred of dignity I had?! Did I go up to him afterwards and breathe, joke and laugh off the trauma both he and I had no doubt suffered from seeing me in a bikini?

Did I fuck.

For SOME REASON which astonishes me now to think about, I froze in the middle of the water….and waved. Like a madman. Waved and waved, palm outstretched like a 5 year old.

It gets worse.

Though the waving is rather mortifying in itself, what well and truly hammered that final nail in, was that instead of waving back as any appeasing "oh god ill try and lessen the humiliation for that chubby girl that's always fancied me" boy would do, my crush looked around, leant forward, furrowed his brow, and gave me the most awkward slow wave in return.

At first, hand still in the air, I smiled thinking he had only just realized who I was (in which case I was a total arse for even stopping and waving) but as I focused more on the downturned smile, I realized that no, this was not a look of delayed awkward recognition, but in fact one of pure unadulterated embarrassment.

Raising his eyebrows to the sky, his finger began to raise with a significance I couldn’t yet fathom.

Suddenly the world was slowing down as the air around my face pressed hot into my already fiery cheeks. Coming over all insecure and a little cold, I looked down.

Yup, both boobs. Both boobs out.

My overeager waving from the water meant that Primark's very best bikini had failed me, abandoning my nipples as it settled itself southward around my cylindrical tummy, and so there I was, little old me, tits out for town, hand still in the air, in front of my first ever crush.

Of course my head went straight under the water as I furiously tried to sort out the stupid twisty bandeau with chlorinated blurred vision, inhaling water and getting claustrophobically hotter and redder with each passing second….

I can’t tell you how long I was down there, but I can say it felt like forever.

Eventually needing to breathe and having just about sorted myself out, I surfaced doing a 360 degree spin to find many a face looking at me. Just in case you've forgotten, this whole episode had occurred in the CENTRE of the swimming pool, for all of Gymgoer's viewing displeasure.

As I looked at them from face to face, I mentally thanked them for not openly laughing or grabbing their iPhones- I wouldn't have blamed them- but the looks of embarrassment on my behalf were frankly just as mortifying. To top it off, as I looked up at my crush, with make up'd eyes resembling Alice Cooper, I realized I wasn’t looking at the man I’d fantasized about since I was 12, but in fact a better looking stranger.

You would think that I would have been filled with relief not to have exposed myself to one of my brother’s friends but I then realized in one heart-stopping second that if I had only noticed this case of mistaken identity a moment earlier, then I would never have waved/flashed/died inside at my Bridget Jones existence, and in turn, could probably have gone back to that gym one day.

Needless to say, I practically ran out of the water, traumatised to the point that not even a steam room and sauna could tempt me to stay, instead I just hightailed it out of there and never called their recruits back.

So that was my Thursday night. How very uneventful.

Little remains for me to say except from here on in, I think it’s going to be a case of no gyms for me; just Ben & Jerry, cellulite and polo necks....