And yet, there I was, pumping and straining in sweat-drenched clothes, counting the minutes until I could less than gracefully stagger from the heart attack-inducing machine when came the sweet, intoxicating scent of a Big Mac.

The world is a cruel place.

At this most sacred of spaces where I come to burn fat (hopefully), perve on men (definitely) and catch up on trashy TV (regrettably), where I come to escape the temptations of the pantry and chide myself into pushing on those extra few minutes because … well, if I don’t everyone will see.

It is the gym I go to transport myself to a secure, fat-free food environment in the hope of convincing myself that when I get home I am slimmer, fitter, happier.

To the gym I go – yes, driving to the gym to run on a treadmill – because I know it’s the only place I can’t cheat, the only place I can’t stop on a whim, when I get tired, when I get sore, when I’m dehydrated, when … I have a headache?

I mean at home, what’s going to happen?

Kerri-Anne isn’t going to jump out of the television and scold me for not finishing my workout and then hand me the card for her cosmetic surgeon.

The gym is safe, a sanctuary for other people just like me striving to be healthy, to be fit, to look less like a mascot for Muffin Break.

And then the Big Mac arrives.

The seductive brown bag is carried by and, like hounds after rabbits, the nose of each sweat-soaked individual slowly rises and heads turned to discover the source of such an ungym-like scent.

Shoes and sweat and starchy towels – these are the smells upon which a wannabe gym junkie thrives.

Instead, conveyor belts slow and cross trainers lose momentum as one by one the seekers of beef stand still.

Is nowhere sacred anymore?

I want disgusting protein bars and meal replacement shakes. I want hills and interval training, leg presses, leg extensions and leg curls. I want weights and fit balls and skipping ropes. I want to walk out with wobbly legs and with weak arms. I want to feel someone else’s sweat on the seat of the pec deck.

I want … a chocolate sundae.

Sigh. Can I have fries with that?