Your kitchen. Halve it, and you’ve got the space of our local gym. Not to say that’s a problem, and more often than not when I go in the daytime there’s rarely more than two of us in, and it serves my purposes fine.
But today there was a fellow gym bunny therein (sorry to make you think of me thus – and you did, you saucepot), with a humungous penchant for FILLING THE SPACE.
This is not the first post I’ve written concerning the elemental stretch and grunt; the primordial flinging of limbs*. It possibly won’t be the last, because I can’t help but find it one of the funniest and loveliest human shenanigans to behold. And in a confined space, with Neil Diamond belting one out, it’s nothing but a theatrical joy.
I appear to attract these shape-shifters, or at least unwittingly to encourage their curious lunges around me. It’s as if my very nonchalance, my impassive bobbing upon the cross trainer, earphone cables whipping like reins (or liquorice laces, depending), my expression set to the shuffling of bands who never intended to raise heart-rates in this way – as if all these traits combine to summon a local warrior overlord with over-tight shorts and a shaving rash to perform for me the fertility dance of the Righteous Squat, and to perform it in that tiny space between me and my gorgeous reflection.
He’s warming up. Now he’s extra warming up, because the treadmill will be in my blindspot. He’s grunting a love song to a treasured muscle strain, a souvenir of the magical time when perhaps he led his people from something to somewhere.
I think he’s showing me now how he could, if he wanted to, push that wall right over.
HE IS SWEATING SO MUCH ALREADY. I think I am to be vanquished by his exuded vapours of ultimate destruction.
Now he is presenting his arse to me. This is not a good moment for Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others to come on, and I acknowledge as much with the snortiest snot-launching laugh.
© Copyright, Steve Mitchell and Fisher Lane, 2012