It’s been a long time since I went to the gym just to look good. Sure, the muscle, the tone, the definition—those are perks. But let’s be real. These days, I go so I don’t become a serial killer.
Life today is rough. It kicks dirt in your face more times than you can count, and it’s not just long days anymore—it’s long lives. When did people become so entitled? I must’ve missed that memo. Out here grinding, working hard just to get slapped in the face by the ‘give it to me now, I don’t want to wait for anything’ crowd.
But then, there’s the gym. The calm in the storm. The one place where nothing but a hundred pounds and a PR can set things right. Is it addicting? That’s putting it nicely. It’s a come-as-you-are, give-it-all-you’ve-got kind of place. A place where patience is a virtue, and for once, doing the same thing over and over again doesn’t make you crazy. Or maybe it does—but damn, it feels good.
Does my entire schedule revolve around when and how I get to the gym? Yes, yes, it does. Do I show up on holidays and birthdays? Obviously. Where else would I be? My gift list? Oversized t-shirts, the same black kicks I’ve been wearing for years but new, gym bags, water bottles, and pads.
I strategize the best time to go—where it’s just ‘peopley’ enough to get a good workout in but not so packed I can’t move. And when the rest of the world catches on to my slot? I find a new one. Because this is my space. My time. Just me and me, making sure the endorphins keep running the show so nobody gets hurt.
It’s not just a habit. It’s a passion. A love affair I’ll never leave.
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