Five thirty in the
morning? Not so early. Not if you’re a middle-aged man staying at
the Marriott Courtyard. The rather tight little gym space at the hotel
I’ve been spending a few days in was standing room only at that hour this
morning. I walked right up to a stair master of against the wall, only to
notice a water bottle resting in the holder. Turning I acknowledged the
bald guy swiftly returning with his towel. I considered a visit to the
Starbucks they had in the front of the facility when a guy with hairy arms
stepped off the only other stair master.
Random running tunes and the ever-humbling progression
through Pleco Chinese flash cards on the iPhone, just like back home . . . but
all the while I was eyeing the guy with the receding hair line lifting barbells
on the only bench they provided. How long did this guy need? Is he
gonna need more than twelve minutes? I’m done in twelve minutes. He
better be too. Why is he resting so long between sets? Whatya
just gonna sit there?
Concentrate on the cards. Concentrate for a little while.
But before me is full-walled mirror. I look good. My haircut looks
alright. Maybe I do. I can’t see my gut. I look better than that
guy. Definitely. Am I that fat? I don’t think so. His
face is fat. He’s gotta fat neck. I’m lucky I don’t have a fat neck
yet. He looks Irish like me though. Irish get fat necks when
they get older. That guy with the waxing dome who’s on my weight
bench is definitely Jewish. No question. I don’t know what this guy
beside me is.
“Tomorrow Never Knows” comes on the mix. Wow.
OK. Fiddle with the phone so it’s turned up full. Close your eyes,
step harder now and concentrate on Ringo’s snare shots. I enjoy the song
for the seven hundred and thirty eighth time in my life till I begin to worry
that I look a bit like Stevie Wonder shaking my head with my eyes closed.
My eyes dart nervously across the mirror to the half a dozen peers on the other
machines. No one was looking at me. Not that I could tell.
Wednesday, 5/17/17
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