I realized in my thirties, the idea of dragging myself to a gym, a facility that is open to the public, is not my favourite outing but a necessary evil if I want to continue to indulge in my caramel, cashew, toffee, crunch bowls from time to time.

A friend and I decided to join together which was a fabulous idea because there was no way I would go unless she physically pulled me by my dark roots, from my couch and drove me to the classes.

Thankfully, our opinions on gym etiquette were in sync and it paid to travel with a fellow prude. We agreed to wear our work-out clothes to the gym, return home to shower thus avoiding the parade of young, nude girls who seem impervious to burns while blow-drying their hair naked and prancing around the change room.

We also agreed that any female who arrived to class wearing make-up of any kind, jewellery other than a wedding band and anything other than an over-sized t-shirt and pyjama bottoms to work out in would simply not be tolerated. The gym is a place to look bad so you can look good later, not the other way around.

We made it through hot yoga where we twisted our bodies in unimaginable ways while the room temperature soared to 40 degrees Celsius with no aeration. Hot yoga was also the class that encouraged flatulence which did not mesh well with the stagnant air, where hot fart clouds floated around the bodies of the guilty.

We graduated to the BOSU ball where you have to be a Cirque du Soleil contortionist but with more talent in order to steady yourself, hop on and off and enjoy the benefits that an over-sized rubber ball, cut in half had to offer.

It was cardio-pilates that did me in. We entered a room filled with what appeared to be the women’s varsity basketball team. No one was shorter than seven feet tall and their Amazonian muscles were screaming for a tough work-out.

My friend and I jumped right in and invited a little friendly competition between the young and old. We kept up for the first three minutes with goofy smiles painted on our faces and dare I say we were kicking some serious ass. In fact, I kicked my ass right out the door eleven minutes in, felt my way along the wall to the nearest bathroom and threw up several times before realizing I was kneeling next to a urinal.

I’m not sure what disgusted me more, my age, lack of endurance, the fact that I was in the men’s room? It was actually a combination of all of those things along with being bare foot in a public washroom, yuck.

Now what? My friend was driving and she was still pilating away while the basketball all-stars carried her to victory on their shoulders. Too far to walk home, I was forced to re-enter the gym and face my demons. I heard the instructor suggest that for such an intense work-out, she would recommend waiting to eat a meal until afterward but if you are famished, you could try some water with a little yogurt. At no time did she mention eating a rack of baby back ribs.

Clearly, I was in the wrong class.