My girl sent me a clip with some Nigerian comedian making fun of women and how as they get older (and I suppose less desirable) they lower their standards when looking for men, and are happy with just having a man. It was hilarious!

Anyway, I’m determined not to be one of those women whose looks do not provide them with options. Hence my diet (which I have since quit), and now my latest project: the gym.

Unlike many people who begin the year with vows to be faithful to the gym, then only manage the first two weeks before dropping out and resuming their usual routines before trying again the next January, I’m different: I rarely go to the gym in January, I go about two or three times a year for about a week or two each time. I’ve done that for the last two years. Just enough to be seen to care about my health and body, and to be known by the instructors. And I’m starting to show consistency, which is good right?

So since I am no longer torturing myself with boiled eggs and near starvation (though I did lose 3kgs), I’m torturing myself with exercise. Here’s what I’ve learned: there are two tribes at the gym. One enjoys working out and shows it by showing off, having fancy gym wear and equipment and chit chatting with the instructors. The other hates it and considers it a form of torture. I belong to the latter. I also wonder whether there’s a fairy godmother who can give me the body i want.

I’m that girl who rolls my eyes, complains about the workouts and generally gives the instructors a hard time, all the while making promises to self that she will not be so damn greedy (and I just ate a really sugary cookie with chocolate filling made by my little sister) next time. I am constantly accusing the trainers of trying to kill me, and threatening them with the very real possibility of a lawsuit from my mother if they hurt me and therefore diminish my chances of marrying a really good man who will pay a decent bride price for me (I consider myself top shelf material by the way).

Anyway, I was at the gym on Thursday and Friday, determined to begin working towards losing the eight kilos that stand between me and my bikini body. I’m not those people who work out with ear phones, lost in a world of commercial music. No. I just work out and watch other people working out. I watch how they move, their expressions, steal glances at their performance (read speed and how many calories burned) on the machine screens and listen to who’s panting more than me, while hating anyone who conquers the treadmill.

I also look for little things that make me feel better about myself; like the fact that I don’t have that much fat around my waist, or that I can lift heavier weights than someone else, or that I don’t look like I’m about to die. That last one is hard though. I find that I usually look like I’ll collapse any minute, and no matter how many times I tell myself to try and look cute, the body simple won’t co-operate.

I have decided that if Kenyan youth do not change their lifestyles they will be outlived by their parents. Seriously though, I saw some very young-looking girls there with serious weight issues there. And while on the inside I was thanking God with “Fadda lawd thank you for this body, it is fine!” I was actually really concerned. This life of just eating, drinking and living like the body can take care of itself is actually ruining us. Take that very seriously by the way.

But I’m inspired by all the old ladies and gentlemen sweating it out at the gym with dedication. They don’t all look fit, but they’re trying, and that’s more than I can say for myself most of the year.

So I’m making a change. I must take care of this body because even Fadda lawd won’t help me if I don’t help myself. I will try even if it feels like torture and being stretched after a workout is a combination of trying to look calm while praying that my body will not decide to let out a fart at that very moment.

I will go back again even if I’m now I’m sitting here with a body that is aching in all sorts of places after those two workouts. So if you see me walking funny please understand that my ass feels like a cross between a giant muscle pull and a steel implant, my thighs are quivering from the effort it’s taking to climb stairs and tight clothes are out of discussion because pulling on even a t-shirt is really trying my burning arms. This better pay off.

And I must make Oburu Odinga my special gym buddy now that we are starting to make a bit of conversation there, hehe!