By Beck Eleven, The Press

There's a certain sinking feeling attached to the realisation you have become a drain on the Government.

For years I've been watching those ads on TV, telling me I should be exercising for 30 minutes a day.

For years I've been counting the minutes it takes to walk from my desk to the toilet and back, being pleased I have a small bladder.

More trips down the corridor equal more movement and greater levels of fitness, I thought.

I've been doing some crazy justifications in my head, but it became time to get real and admit body parts were veering south and I could only really wear jeans if I was confident I would spend the night standing, because sitting down made my stomach and thighs feel like denim prisoners.

Then serendipity struck.

In the same week I planned to stop smoking, I was able to take over a colleague's gym membership.

The gym was small, exclusive and would cost roughly the same as my smoking habit, so I took the offer.

It is next to my office, so there was the bonus of feeling guilty every time I went to work. Guilt is a far more powerful driver than painful jeans.

I booked for an initial session so a trainer could design me a routine.

As part of the sales pitch to make me feel like I had joined an exclusive club, the manager told me his trainers would listen to my needs. Immediately, I felt relieved.

No-one would be forcing me to do lunges. Lunges are the Devil's work.

So, anyway, my trainer told me to do lunges. It was a revelation to discover the Devil walks in human form as a muscly 20-something.

I saw no point in being polite, so I mentioned to the Devil I was hating him more with every little lunge.

I wobbled my way through about 40 lunges and spent the rest of the day walking like I'd messed myself.

After lunging my way into Hell, I was tasked with a grinder - sort of like a cycle but for your arms, the same as on a mighty yacht.

Here is the sad thing. I had to grind like crazy for 20 seconds, rest for 20 seconds and then repeat. I honestly believed I was going to be sick into the grinder.

It is embarrassing to note I was only made to do half the exercises as I was only learning, but it still nearly killed me.

Two days later my entire stiff body was held together by lactic acid.

Day two was no easier, though I realised my swagger had something of the John Wayne about it (with rigor mortis).

My bedroom is on the second floor and I seriously considered living in the lounge while my muscles regained their flexibility.

I told my friend Dan to keep an eye on my butt and watch as it slowly lifted and hardened with each gym visit.

Dan wondered if we might be able to "bounce marbles off it" by the end of the year.

I hope so, because currently we could bounce a marble towards my butt and it would just nestle in a cheek and stay there.

I am pleased I have made a few changes as we dive into 2009, but I can't help wondering if it might have been easier to just try a new haircut.

beck.eleven@press.co.nz