Kirsty Bosley: It's life gym but not as I know it, my new relationship is pure hell

"I hate this," I complained. "I hate it! My legs hurt! My stomach hurts! I feel sick! I'M GOING TO BE SICK!"

We'd been powering on the cross trainer for a grand total of four minutes, and I was all but ready to go into the changing room to attempt to drown myself in the few inches of water at the bottom of the shower.

It's my second week as a member of Pure Gym, and despite the uplifting music, the friendly staff and the encouragement of Alix, I was ready to give up. After four minutes of moderate cardio.

"Why is this my life?" I asked, and the ghosts of all the cheeses I've ever loved before swirled about my head like stars around Wile E Coyote's head when he's had an Acme weight dropped on his skull. There was that time at Christmas where Alix had passed on the Camembert so I ate the whole thing myself. The thick cheese stuck to my knuckles (and my chin and my lips and teeth) as I dipped crusty bread into its creamy innards, scooping it into my trap like Oliver Twist gobbling up gruel. Please mate, can I have some more?

I recalled that time as an inexperienced teen when I went to an 80th birthday party at a retirement home and discovered brie for the first time. I didn't even know what to do with it. Are you even supposed to eat the rind? Does it even matter? I put it in between crackers and hoped for the best. Happy brieday to me.

I cannot count the number of times that I've convinced a tee-total Alix to drive us to McDonald's at three in the morning for mozzarella dippers.

I've made countless trips to M&S on my lunch break to buy cheese scones, cheese topped pretzels and cheesy pasta pots. I remembered fondly all of those times stood drunk in front of the fridge breaking off corners of Cathedral City, illuminated by the glow of shame. There have been more pizzas than I could shake a French stick at, all with extra cheese where possible and sometimes topped with a bit of rocket to give the impression that there was more to my meal than downing thrice my guideline daily allowance of saturated fat in one sitting.

Temptress

My love of cheese is a well documented fact among my friends and family. Aside from the ones I can't eat as a vegetarian (oh Parmesan, you tangy temptress!), I'll devour them all. If there's a cheese board option on a menu, I'll choose it over cake. And if there's a self-service at a wedding, then it bodes well for no one. Except me.

Well, until now, here on this cross trainer. Every beat of my heart sent fire shooting through my probably clogged veins. My lungs were burning and my muscles were too.

The gym is a strange and wonderful place. As we'd prepared for hell in the changing room, taking longer than necessary tying our shoes, a lovely girl getting into her own kit sensed our trepidation. "It's rubbish isn't it?" she said, sweetly. "But I was 20 stone before, you know? When you start seeing results, you'll feel better." Her kind wishes to 'have a good one' as we plodded out were soon forgotten when we took to the rowing machine. My poor legs and shoulders hadn't recovered from the last session three days before, and now, after lifting snacks of differing sizes and weights to my mouth in the days since, they were still hurting. Everyone working out in my vicinity heard about it. "Ohhhh, it BURRRRNNNSS!"

I wasn't the only person complaining. Alix's shoe kept slipping off and, in between strokes, she huffed and tutted and cursed it to hell. I couldn't tighten the strap that holds my feet secure to the machine on account of not being able to navigate around my busting boob/belly combo. I closed my eyes to imagine rowing in the Oxford V Cambridge boat race, but my imagination failed me and, along with Al cursing her god-forsaken shoes, I was brought back to the reality of the gym at peak time.

My local Pure Gym is quite spacey, so I didn't have to face the horror of a busy, endorphin-pumped fanatic looming over me asking why I keep shouting "STROKE!" over and over (boat race-related. I wasn't having one).

However, I couldn't avoid all the babes everywhere, pumping iron and chasing abs. I felt as miserable as sin. But not because I wasn't rippling with toned muscles, but because I was angry at myself for getting into such an unhealthy state. That's why I'm going to the gym in the first place. The cheese life is a good life, but it's not conducive to running upstairs in the office, playing wrestling with my pals (I think that's another column altogether) or living to see 50.

The two slender, athletic girls at work that I sit alongside are both keen runners. Emily will come in at 8am straight from a stint at the gym and her face won't be all shiny and red like a champion-sized garden-grown tomato. Lisa will arrive on a Monday, fresh-faced having run a half marathon the day before. You wouldn't find her crying in pain or hobbling around like she's just been hit by a car, she's all glowing and lovely and not screaming about how she feels like she's going to be sick. It's aspirational, really. I can't even run for four blasted minutes.

How long do you think it'll be until I shut up moaning about it? Tonight I'll go back to the gym and try again. I can't wait until it gets easier. Do you know what the best exercise is to get a washboard stomach? Do you know how many miles I'd have to run to counteract the massive chunk of Boursin I just broke off with my finger and stuffed into my gob? And do you have £1 for the vending machine, please?

Blurb for Bozzers's column: Say cheese! Why @Bozzers is having to grin and bear it at the gym