My gym isn’t fancy like my mom’s. It’s not for meatheads like the ones downtown. It’s not a for high-strung college students between classes.
My gym is a classic, old-fashioned YMCA. It has old people; smelly people; and people (from other countries?) who work out in stylishly creased work khakis and button-down shirts. (I’m not trying to be a dick. People at my gym really do wear street clothes while racing on the treadmill.)
My two favorite people at the gym this week:
1) The crazy little old lady in the showers who said how happy she was that the pool temperature was warm. She said, “If that pool had been cold in this weather, I swear, I would have raced up and down the streets naked.” She paused. “I love drama,” she admitted.
(Side note: This isn’t a drawing of her specifically. I’d never draw a specific little old naked lady without permission — though something tells me this particular dame would not give a single flip.)
2) The dude in the belly shirt with the rattail. When he leaned backwards over the exercise ball (depicted!) his whole tummy was generously shared with the cardio room. I will cherish his gift forevermore.
Every time I enter the Y, it’s an adventure.