I’ve gone to my fitness center once in the last six months. Considering my monthly membership fee, my gym card is the most expensive photo ID I own. I sit on the ab crunching machine, hoping to do 50, and the back of a muscle man’s tee-shirt catches my eye: GO BIG OR GO HOME.
I think, OK, maybe I’ll add 25 leg lifts.
Afterwards, I walk past a man pulling on rope chains, as if hoisting a whale from the deep. A woman climbs a rotation ladder that ascends steeply toward infinity. I purse my lips and think, “Honey, don’t blow your knees out.”
I shake the jealousy away and think, “I’m not doing badly for my age, motoring around compared to other people.” (“Other people” being the paralyzed or the bedridden).
Just then a blonde in neon pink walks by with a slogan emblazoned across her perkiness: EXC– USES SUCK.
Really? Fine, I’ll have a few go-rounds on the indoor track.
After a few (true to my word) laps (in the slow lane because the window views are marvelous), I sit down for a read. Where are all the gossip mags? Geez, I am being forced to review versions of Best Workouts. Fascists.
Another tee-shirt goes by: SUCCESS DOES NOT REST.
Oh, kiss my abs. It’s time for lunch.