Clang, Clang, Clang went the Trolley

Last week I had an unscheduled public workout. I have sorely neglected my gym membership for months, and so I wasn’t properly prepared for such exposed exercise. Still, it was absolutely unavoidable and possibly the most work my left bicep and abs have done since I gave up planking early on in the summer. (My commitment to fitness is wildly apparent.)

Anyway. My spontaneous workout did not happen in the gym, nor did it take place in a park, nor in a swimming pool. I wish it had. No, instead, I found myself on a bus at 17:30, crammed in with a gazillion other commuters who were not prepared to relinquish a millimetre of their limited air space. I stood squished between a lady of significant size (not unlike me) and a small man who already seemed to be clinging to the bus pole for dear life.

As the bus set off, the woman behind me bent over to deposit her heavy bag on the floor, her rear end propelling me towards the terrified man, who ended up with my not-so-small chest in his face. I am confident from his facial expression that this did NOT make his day, and readied myself to administer CPR should it happen again.

Determined to avoid this, I spent the 15-minute bus journey flexing my left bicep indiscriminately in order to hold myself upright with the help of the pole, whilst squeezing my abs (I’m sure they exist somewhere underneath the layers of jelly) every time we turned a corner.

I was useless at Physics in school. I can remember that it’s better to have a lower centre of gravity in these situations, but sitting on the floor was not an option (though I did come scarily close to sitting on an elderly gentleman’s lap at one point when the bus brakes seemed to stick); so I was left unsuccessfully trying to work out which way my body was likely to be pushed and thrown every time the bus changed direction in order to distribute the weight on my feet accordingly.

Bizarrely, I also caught myself screwing up my toes inside my shoes as if this would somehow improve my grip on the floor. It didn’t. I’m pretty sure other muscles were clenched too if I’m honest.

I sweated, I swayed, and I stared longingly at the dreamy bespectacled, bearded guy further down the line and wished I was crammed against his chest rather than Heart-Attack-Harry, but it was not meant to be. I caught the eye of a kindly looking lady as I teetered to and fro, and she gave me a sympathetic smile from her seat as I used my scarf (I know, I know, inappropriate workout wear) to mop my heavily perspiring brow. Smug witch.

Dreamy Guy disembarked with Dreamy Woman attached to his arm, and I was left dejected and done in, the filling in a sardine sandwich, conscious of my sticky, flushed face and possible armpit puddles. I think it’s probably best I don’t meet Prince Charming on the 17:30 to Southdown anyway. Turns out I’m not Judy Garland after all.