I stroll into St. Mary’s Hospital—the VIP entrance to my very own workout apocalypse.
After a short elevator ride, the hospital’s gym looms ahead, a modern-day Colosseum where the gladiators are replaced with treadmills, and the lions are ... well, probably still lions if my imagination about personal trainers is accurate.
As I near the entrance, I can’t help but notice the variety of people going in and out. There’s a man with biceps the size of my head, and he’s drinking from a gallon jug of water.A gallon!
I wonder how many times he pees a day?
Is he part human, part camel?
Camel shifter.Yeah, I could go with that.
Maybe I should switch genres and write a story about a gym that’s actually a front for a shifter training facility. It would explain a lot.
The idea amuses me, and I almost miss the sight of a woman walking past with leggings so bright they could probably be seen from space.
Fashion at the gym is a whole new world—one where neon and spandex reign supreme. I look down at my own outfit, which is a less vibrant, more‘didn’t want to scare myself in the mirror’shade of black.
I snicker to myself.
It’s a wonder they let me in wearing such tame apparel.
Once inside, I’m greeted by the unmistakable scent of determination and disinfectant. I make my way to the front desk to check in, where a chirpy attendant with a name tag reading ‘Skye’ meets my gaze.
“First day?” she asks, her voice filled with the kind of pep that suggests she’s never faced the cruel betrayal of a snooze button.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask, attempting to smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace.
Skye just laughs—a sound so cheerful it practically bounces. “Don’t worry. You’re going to do great. You’re in good hands.”
“Oh, good.”
I hope Skye’s optimism is infectious because I need all the help I can get.
She hands me a schedule, and my eyes skim the bonus classes being offered.
‘Aqua Zumba.’
‘Kettlebell Khaos.’
And‘Yoga for the Soul.’
They sound like a list of bands that would play at an extremely niche music festival.
With a few minutes to spare before my meeting with certain death—I mean, Ada—I venture further into the facility. Each area reveals new devices of torture.
There’s the weight area, which I promptly nickname‘The Iron Jungle’.The cardio section is‘Treadmill Territory,’and I decide the less said about the free weights area, the better. I’m pretty sure the grunting noises from that quadrant are a form of communication I’m not advanced enough to understand.
There’s an aerobics class in progress, and through the window, I catch a glimpse of synchronized suffering. I entertain the thought of joining, but then I remember my coordination is on par with a newborn giraffe’s.
Instead, I find a corner to stake out—somewhere between a row of stationary bikes and a rack of dumbbells.
Here, I can observe, and possibly blend in with the surroundings. If I stand still enough, maybe I can pass as an out-of-place piece of equipment.
I check my phone, pretending to look busy as I wait for Ada to come find me, but really I’m drafting a mental will.
To Lily, I bequeath my coffee maker. May it fuel your mornings.
To my unwritten novels, find someone worthy to tell your tales.