Soul-sapping classes and mean machines - here's why I had to end things with the gym, and I feel better already

Oh Gym, we tried, didn't we? I thought you were The One. But I was wrong. You were just Another One. All those crazy dreams of staying together, of a serious commitment, when I can never be that person. I'm sorry. Try to forget me. And stop phoning! I've made up my mind. All the best, Sharon.

OK, that wasn't the actual wording of my conversation cancelling my latest gym membership, but that was the gist.

I've had enough of messy break-ups and I'll tell you this, I'll never delude myself into falling for a room full of scary running machines ever, ever again. So how did I get to this point?

Believing I would finally take my abs from flab to fab lasted about half an hour after I'd signed on the dotted line for the pricey membership. Buoyed by the clouds of cuckoo land, I'd bought new trainers, new workout leggings, a new sweat-wicking (whatever that is) top and was bestride the rowing machine, embarking on Nimble New Me.

And that's when I remembered that working up enough sweat to be wicked was a lot more difficult than raiding the sporty rails of Marks & Spencer.

'Right, 30 minutes!' I told myself, sternly. 'Row, row, row!' After just three minutes I let myself off, telling myself a lot less sternly that it was a start and anything was better than nothing. Nothing being my default.

On to a leg machine, where I'll admit I googled 'quadriceps' furtively because I hadn't a Scooby-Doo where they were located. Would it kill these people to put 'front of your legs' in brackets?

Wondering what else to try before heading for the showers with their posh conditioner, I saw a machine that you stood on. A free-standing banner declared it to be a computerised fitness assessor. But let's call it the lard-o-meter, for that is what it was. With a mere pulse up through my fallen arches to my unconditioned hair and back, I could see my fat-to-muscle ratio.

Unfortunately, so could everybody else. It had been situated in full view of all the buff gym bunnies busily Achieving Goals. Desperate to hide the results, I awkwardly pulled the ad banner closer to act as a shielding screen. Hopefully, it also muffled the little scream I emitted when my fat stats flashed up on the screen.

Perusing the list of classes my new gym offered, I saw every conceivable fitness fad du jour was covered by that direct debit. I was doing my best not to think about. Once again I thwacked on the Lycra and sallied forth to a strength-training class. Fast forward to me in a room full of tremendously fit-looking folk, realising my mistake.

The class started badly when it was assumed I'd know what equipment I needed from the cupboard. I didn't. My panicky land grab of the spot nearest the back had a very familiar feel. It's what I always feel in an exercise class.

Why am I here? And where can I hide? No amount of bicep curls to pounding dance tracks can fix that. Exactly 45 soul-sapping minutes later, I wanted to cry.

Gym classes are so, so boring. And so, so hard. And the mirrors are so, so big. And did I mention the cost?

The final straw came when the technology started telling me off. The exercise machines were so state-of-the-art that you had to log in to use them - unfortunately, revealing your fitness profile... and, with quiet judgement, the date of your last workout.

Inevitably, I'd stopped going as regularly as I'd promised myself and my weekly visits were now effectively costing almost £30 a pop.

Granted, it had been a wee while since I'd parked my ample behind on the glutes (buttocks) toner. Life gets in the way, doesn't it? Not to mention the telly.

Anyway, I tapped the screen for my personal workout and suddenly the judgy tech was in tutting mode. Regression began a message. We haven't seen each other for a while!

Then, a slow, visible dialling down of the weights. To give me time to reflect on my weak-willed ways. And what's this? An eye-roll emoji. Yes, really. Like it couldn't even look at me. Oh, stuff this for a game of soldiers, I thought. Enough is enough. I'm paying to be body-shamed by computers.

I had succumbed to my last bout of activity amnesia - where I join a gym, wobble along full of good intentions, almost die of boredom and self-reproach, then cancel, considerably poorer and not a bit fitter.

My friend Catherine canned her classes after a moment of truth, too. We're swapping stories in a coffee shop, like a support group for midlife gym escapees. She nods when I tell her about my epiphany on the bum machine.

It's that moment when you think, "I'm paying for this!"' she agrees. 'For me, it was 10 minutes into an expensive class I'd talked myself into. We got on all fours like a dog, then had to cock a leg, like a dog doing a wee for a count of three. I couldn't do it and thought, "I'm leaving."'

She tried to sneak out, giving the instructor the 'it's not you, it's me' speech first. Then realised she needed to be let out the main door - by interrupting the class again. 'I ended up jumping up and down at the studio window to get her attention,' Catherine sighs. 'Now looking like a dog trying to take the postman's arm off.'

Another pal, Caron, is fed up with fights with fitness machines. 'I was on, of all things, something called the hip-thrust machine when it jammed mid-thrust,' she says. 'I had to shout for help until someone appeared with a can of WD-40 to release me!' That sends the froth on the coffee flying with snorts of laughter.

'Fancy a walk?' I ask my pals. We pull on unelasticated woollies and stride off for a decidedly health-boosting and fee-free stroll in the park. I feel better already.

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