Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘Like, are you training for a particular event? Do you want to run a marathon? Are you going on a hiking holiday? Do you want to be able to run 5k easily?’

‘Well, it would be nice to be able to run for the bus without giving up halfway,’ I explain, examining my shoelaces. This is so excruciating. When I signed up for Personal Training I didn’t realise I would be cross-examined. Apparently the ‘personal’ bit is literal. ‘And it would be even better if I could run for a long time, and fast. Really fast. You know, in case someone is chasing me.’

‘Chasing you?’ There is an alarmed look on Jordan’s face and I quickly continue before he thinks I’m a victim of domestic violence.

‘You know, by a murderer, or a rapist, or some guy I’ve met online .?.?.’ My voice trails off when I realise that the alarm has been replaced by a ‘she is bloody insane’ expression. ‘Anyway. Yes. So I’d like to be able to run for long distances. Fast.’

We talk for a little longer and I try and keep my answers short, so he doesn’t figure out that I don’t just talk crazy, I am crazy. When it’s finally over, I let out a massive sigh of relief and take a sip of water. This gym business is already really stressful and I haven’t even started exercising yet.

Following Jordan back out into the main area, I spot my reflection in a huge mirror. Despite being a little flushed from the interrogation, I look quite good in my form-fitting Adidas trackies and simple, yet effective, makeup. My hair is still out and is behaving for once and looks quite glossy and voluminous.

‘Zara?’ Jordan’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. ‘Let’s start with the treadmill,’ he says, gesturing for me to join him at a long row of formidable-looking running machines. Taking a deep breath, I give him my megawatt smile and confidently hop onto the belt as he begins pressing various buttons while explaining something about heartbeats and fat burning. Truthfully, I’m not paying much attention – it’s difficult to, with Jordan’s beauty constantly distracting me. The belt begins to move and I’m forced to start walking, slowly at first and then a little faster as Jordan presses the buttons to make it pick up the pace.

The machine speeds up again and now I’m walking so fast that I feel as if I’m about to topple over. It’s impossible to walk gracefully when you’re moving this fast and I look like a meerkat being chased by a fox.

‘Start jogging,’ Jordan instructs as he adjusts the speed again. I don’t really have a choice but to oblige, and as I do, my bum and boobs start bouncing in synchronisation. I look in the mirror again and suddenly I don’t look like an Asian model for Adidas anymore. My bits are leaping around all over the place! My boobs are practically hitting me in my face and my hair has gone from sexy volume to dragged-through-a-hedge volume.

While I’m lost in thought with my hair obscuring my vision, Jordan decides to speed things up even more, only I’m not paying attention so I buckle, land on my knees, get carried to the end of the belt and flung off.

‘Zara, are you OK?’ He runs over to me as I quickly get up and plaster a smile on my face.

‘I’m fine!’ I squeak, teetering precariously from the sudden rush of blood to my head. Jordan grabs my arm to steady me and leads me back to the office where he hands me a cup of cold water and tells me to sit down while he checks me over. I’m beyond embarrassed now. What happened to me out there is far more humiliating than Jordan weighing me.

‘OK, you seem to be fine. Does anything hurt?’

Only my battered ego. ‘No, honestly, I’m fine. Just feeling a bit embarrassed, that’s all.’ By this stage, I can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes anymore. Not only does he think I’m a lazy, unfit nutcase, I’m now a lazy, unfit, clumsy, vain nutcase who can’t break into a light jog without falling over.

‘Great, so let’s get back out there then. We’ll give the treadmill a miss for today but let’s see how you fair on the stepper, cross trainer and resistance equipment.’

We spend the next half an hour on various machines as he tests my stamina, strength and core strength, all the while writing notes. By the time we get to the final machine – a resistance one for my upper arms – I think I’m going to die. Every part of me is throbbing in agony, my face is dripping with sweat that I feel too embarrassed to wipe because my makeup keeps leaving brown streaks on the new white towel, and I am panting like an excited Labrador. Even my bum is sweating and has been leaving wet patches on the leather seats. I am beyond grateful that my black top is concealing the pools of water collecting under my arms.

The worst part is, I can’t even pretend that I look OK because there are bloody mirrors everywhere. What is it with gymmers wanting to look at themselves while they curl their biceps and run on a conveyor belt? Everywhere I turn I see my ridiculous reflection; my red, shiny face with countless strands of hair sticking on to it, and my foundation streaked like war paint. My lipstick has almost wiped off entirely, but somehow my lip liner has remained intact, the outline reminding me of The Joker from Batman. I can feel that my scalp is drenched and even my boobs are sweating. I. Am. Going. To. Collapse. Any. Second.

‘I can’t do this anymore,’ I rasp when Jordan tries to get me to lift some weights over my shoulders, my eyes about to pop out of their sockets. My arms are shaking like jelly and I feel the vein in my neck bulging dangerously. ‘Seriously, Jordan, my arms are going to fall off. Please don’t make me beg!’

My voice starts wobbling and my fake accent starts to waver. I think Jordan is afraid I’ll burst into tears because he takes the weights and smiles kindly down at me. I’m so exhausted that he doesn’t even look good anymore. In fact, every time he says, ‘Go on, Zara, one more time’, his face turns into the devil emoji.

‘OK, that’s enough for today then. Let’s get you stretched out and we’ll call it a day.’

As if I’m not humiliated enough, Jordan then makes me lie down in my own pool of sweat and starts contorting my limbs into unnatural angles. I resist, tensing all my muscles, because I’m scared that if I let go even an inch, something worse than just sweat will escape from my body. I’m sure I stink, despite the deodorant I doused myself with, and I don’t want to know what my face looks like right now.

‘Relax, Zara, I can’t work the tension out otherwise,’ Jordan says, looking down at me, worried. I can’t meet his gaze so I squeeze my eyes closed and just pray for all this to be over.

As soon as it is, I hobble out of the workout area as fast as my aching legs let me and lock myself into a toilet stall and just sit on the loo for ages, trying to gather up the strength to get into the shower.

I make it to the shower and avoid looking at the fully naked woman who has just emerged from a cubicle. I’m so done with this place and all these exercise-obsessed freaks. I scrub off all the grime, sweat and crusty makeup, cursing myself and Jordan the entire time. My arms are so wrecked that they shake when I try and wash my hair. When I’m finally done and ready in my work clothes, I take a moment to sit in the juice bar to regain my strength. Scouring the menu, I try to find something that doesn’t sound like a bloody salad. Kale, avocado, nuts, ginger, wheatgrass, spirulina. The thought makes me turn as green as the drink the man in front of me is happily slurping. In the end, I go for a banana, blueberry and avocado drink, which sounds tolerable, apart from the avocado bit. Whoever said that exercise before work is invigorating, is a total bullshitter. Forget feeling ready for the day – I’m ready to go to bed and never get back out.

As I sit there sipping my smoothie and waiting for the sugar to give me enough energy to get to the bus stop, I check my phone and am surprised to find a text from Mum. This early? For a second, I contemplate deleting it without reading it. I’ve had enough stress this morning to last me the rest of the week. But then I worry that something serious may have happened so I take a big swig of my banana and blueberry concoction and open it up.

The dentist replied to your email and said he wants to meet at the weekend. I’ve taken the liberty to confirm on your behalf. You and a chaperone are meeting him at Ladurée in Covent Garden on Saturday. Get ready!