Until recently, it was a rare Monday night that the Duumsters weren’t plonked front right of our local gym for the 6.30pm session of Body Pump. We could be invited to our own wedding and have to politely decline, as Pump called. “Going to Pump on Monday night,” was equivalent to, “having a drink or ten million on the weekend” – like, duh. Pump was like the Brawn in our Brain Sandwich. Boyfriends came and went, favourite TV shows were picked up (hello, City Homicide), then dumped, as soon as Sophie let us. Our love for Pump never flagged, however – despite having lesbian boobies flashed at us every time in the change rooms, despite having to ferociously murder five other gym-junkies in the race to get a bench, despite us all beginning to resemble the Chinese swimming team in the 70s. Until, for whatever reason, we all decided to “take a beat,” (a la Victory Ford and supposed-to-be-hubba-hubba contractor with child in Lipstick Jungle). Who can say why. Maybe we just preferred being in bed reading trash novels to doing squats that even strippers would find indecent. Did Pump briefly push its face into snot-laden tissues, air its freakum dress, have some rowdy nights out with the girls, during which it breaks its nails, rediscovers late-night New York Slice, and spews sparkling rose onto a boy from Lagoona’s shoes? Doubt it, it’s a gym class, not a person. Still, no doubt it missed us (or at least the $11 our presence assured, apiece).
After some time had passed, we began to realise there was a Pump-shaped hole in our lives (roughly equivalent to 2 x triceps muscles and a butt). We trickled back in, heads held low. “Hi, Pump,” we mumbled, “looking good!”. “Wish I could say the same about you, flabby!” it guffawed. Low blow, but fair. We set up our benches, put on our little gloves, and prepared for some muscle-maxxing action. And then it all came flooding back. Why the love had surged between us the first place. Where else can you be comfortably clothed in sweats, but still feel like a Gladiator? Where else can you re-visit your rave music childhood, without it being (heaps) lame? In what other class can you beat a muscly beefcake dude, flagging after ten measly repetitions? NOWHERE I TELL YOU! And we’re not alone. After trying to track down the warm-up song that gets our heart-a-fluttering (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uRWBifXLUq4) some like-minded Pumpalots turned up, http://www.lesmills.com/Community/forums/thread/55609.aspx, and http://nzglen.wordpress.com/2009/04/01/bodypump-70-tracklist/). Sure, Pump is a slut. And it tends to date weirdos with bad haircuts. But whatever. Haus ov Duum HEARTS Body Pump 4evs. Till we get sick of it again.
