TL Health and Fitness Initiative 2012 - Page 173

Today, as I was preparing to do pullups at the gym, a man came into the room. Mid-thirties, wearing something objectively ridiculous. Not like circus-ridiculous, but like he'd accidentally turned on espn once and glimpsed a particularly flamboyant tennis player, thinking that's what exercisers wore.

His was no confident stride. He came shambling into the room. Now that I say it out loud it doesn't sound right, but I googled it and that's totally what he did. He walked in a manner equal to or at least closely approaching that of a shamble. Slumped shoulders, head down like he was expecting to be attacked, dragging his feet behind him while at the same time trying defiantly to look like he knew exactly what he was doing. His eyes; sunken, his waist; thinner than my biceps. And I don't brag about my biceps. Not all the time.

You could tell he hated being there. It was not his choice. He looked like a child, forced into an art museum by his parents. All he ever wanted was to be back at the hotel, playing his gameboy. There was an air of injustice about him as he walked past me. For a brief second our eyes met and though no words were spoken, his lips moved. Furiously. Silently.

He went into the other room. Then, a minute later, he came back. He looked around, saw something that made sense, and picked up a medicine ball. He went back onto the other room, and from what I heard he appeared to be bouncing it. The bounces soon became irregular and dispirited, and before long, he came back out again, without the ball. It was behind him now.

His back was straighter. He seemed more confident. He had obviously worked something out. And though we were underground in the weights room, I could sense the spring in his step and the sun on his face as he looked around, offered a silent, triumphant farewell, and left, never to return.