I ended up at the gym around seven in the evening. The lot looked bare of vehicles and patrons because of the unexpected snowstorm; not that it prevented me from my daily deeds concerning my health, muscles, and physical whatnots.
Inside the gym, a tank top-wearing male ginger with muscles out the wazoo and thighs of steel covered in Lycra shorts sat behind the associate desk. I flashed my membership card at him and headed to the locker room. I changed into a pair of Nike running shorts, athletic shoes, and a cotton T-shirt with an illustrated Captain America shield spread over my pecs.
Approximately twelve minutes later, I started reps: presses, curls, and pullups, concentrating on my arms for the day. I wasn’t at all surprised to see the place still empty of gym monkeys. Out of boredom, and because maybe he liked the look of me, Ginger Lycra Guy checked on me and asked if I needed anything. I told him I was fine, although he did bring me two fresh cotton towels.