The Gym

    As I pull open the steel rimmed glass door on this warm summer evening, the coolness of the air conditioning sweeps past my face. The young, pretty receptionist sits behind the tall wooden desk with a big smile on her face and greets me as I enter with a cheerful, “Good evening!” as if she knows me personally or her boss is monitoring her actions. She asks for my membership number before tapping it into the computer with her long French manicured nails, my face appears on a monitor in front of me. Her heavily made up mask like face glows slightly orange from what I imagine is a considerable amount of fake tan. A strong sickly smell lingers around a large display of lilies, making me feel headachy and ill. She tells me “Go right through Sir have a nice workout.” As I begin to step away my heavy gym bag falls from my shoulder and I become aware of my exhaustion, after a long hard day. Trudging up the carpeted stairs with heavy, wearied footsteps my eyes meet the images of the perfect physiques on the plain canvas walls.

   

    I Take a deep breath and push open the men’s heavy changing room door. Serried ranks of hooks and benches greet my eyes. Odd shoes and socks break up the tidiness of this barrack like environment. I hurriedly undress and put on my gym outfit, my fingers fumbling with the laces. I look at my image in the mirror and examine what I see, Mr Average – average looks, average body, average life. A grubby man limps past the showers. His shabby, crumpled clothing reflects his tiresome and unsatisfying work. His hair is chaotic like the mop he wipes the floor with, Grey stringy, strands slicked across his greasy forehead.  The cleaner mindlessly pushes his mop, backwards and forwards over the glistening green tiled floor. He hums a tuneless tune, it sounds foreign and strange and as I look at him I wonder what has brought him to England. His dark eyes are deep pools of misery and his hunched shoulders look tense. His hairy hands are calloused and his nails bitten. I look away from the downcast cleaner and he is quickly forgotten. I check my appearance one last time, new gym clothes and trainers, bought so that I might have the uniform of this new regime of fitness and exercise.

Join now!

   

Entering the gym I become aware of the odious stench of sweat. Techno music blares out, the heavy rhythm thudding in time to my wildly beating heart. The torso building apparatus has been colonized by a cohort of egotistical looking men. The machine like-humans stand in the corner of the room endlessly gazing at their tank-like reflections. One swaggering individual whips off his T-shirt to reveal his tensed stomach muscles displaying a sculpted silhouette on the wall. His bulging biceps are a dense network of prominent, pulsing veins. Beads of perspiration decorate his forehead like drizzle on ...

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