There’s a gym in the basement of my new office building. I’ve been going at least twice a week for over a month, hauling myself out of bed an hour early to burn some calories. I’ve even been working with a personal trainer. Where once I was intimidated by the grunting and groaning of the singlet-wearing weight lifters, now I waltz into the strength area with confidence. Well, not quite. But getting there.
Stepping into the gym is like entering another world, replete with harsh fluorescent strip-lighting, a non-stop Rihanna soundtrack and posters that urge us to ‘get fit or die trying’ (!). But there is another, hidden place nested within this one, like a matryoshka, or more fittingly, a harem buried deep within the sultan’s palace. I’m speaking of the women’s changing room.
Catherine Queen 