Tour de Gym
The guy next to me on the StairMaster was climbing imaginary stairs like he was a champion cyclist. He was bent over the display, gripping the handlebars as though his balance depended on it. Every few seconds he would glance over his shoulder to check for the competition – or possibly he was trying to flirt with someone on the exerbikes.
I don’t like to imagine what I look like at the gym; I know it must be silly. After all, everyone else looks silly, even the guy who clearly spends his every waking moment in the corner with the free weights. But they put mirrors up. So I know I look like I have a stick up my butt that’s going to explode out my cheeks any minute. But I don’t hang on to the equipment for dear life, ever. So there.