I go to a gym. It is a hole in the wall. I don’t go there because of the latest and greatest machines—because there aren’t any. I go there because of the people.
The receptionist and trainers, and some of the clients. Then again, there are plenty that rub me the wrong way. Like the dude that always inserts himself into my personal space. I guess we will be forever synchronised in our mutual frustration for each other.
There’s one thing everyone complains about: the music.
The owner of the gym is a metal head and could be easily mistaken for a festival goer from the 90s. He likes to work out there too. And for his favorite music to accompany his workouts. Meanwhile, most of the customers wear headphones.
He complains about business. And contemplates out loud about even selling the place. He used to ask me for advice, but stopped doing that ever since I pointed out that his gym is not his living room. Metallica blares on.