What I like about my new fitness club is a good ventilation - it doesn't smell sweat, rubber and metal like many gyms. And nobody asked me private questions. However one of the trainers told me to change an open sportive top for a T-shirt. I'd felt like I had impressive tits, but, to my frustration, the rule appears to be universal: the guy pointed at a poster explaining and depicting their (now our) dress-code: don't show your armpits or belly, no matter what gender you are. Surprisingly, there were no restrictions to the length of shorts. Or perhaps I haven't seen all the posters.
As to the mortal shell of my soul, it seems that for its age it has an excellent weight, but it is badly hydrated - no matter how diligent I was supplying liquids to it 12 hours before the evaluation; it has 5 to 6 kg of fat to be turned into a lean flesh - that was exactly I was thinking of, while going to the fitness centre, however I could not predict that much and still question the number of unwanted pounds of fat. Well, we'll see. It is ready for heavy-duty tasks much better than I've predicted, but is less flexible than I've thought - these are the discoveries I trust.
I've paid an extra nice money for a trainer once a month for a year. The first lesson is scheduled for tomorrow, 11 a.m.. I hope to have time for it.