Baggage

After a rejuvenating workout at the gym, I wound up lockered next to a peculiar man. Dressed in mismatched clothes, the man looked like he did not belong at the gym…at least not for a workout. When he opened his gym bag, I saw a bevy of pornographic girlie magazines, spoiled food fitting of a squirrel, and a hand towel positioned to conceal a 35mm camera. Alarmingly, his actions superceded the contents of the stuffed ditty bag. As if I were an invisible bystander, the man repeatedly fondled silk boxers that peeked naughtily out of a zippered compartment. The man walked with his head down to make repeated marches to the sink for hand washing only to return to his magic gym bag to fondle the garment. I am not sure that he ever wanted to leave his gym bag side. Rather, I think compulsions made it the only option.

When he started mumbling to himself, I quickly dressed back to civilian clothes while his camera remained tucked away. I had seen enough. The man all to himself gave me more than enough evidence for me to form my own opinion. In my own crowded mind, I called him insane. Then I remembered my just finished workout ritual.

I lollygagged inside the snack bar for a few minutes so I could start my workout exactly at 10am sharp. Once comfortable to set myself into motion, my own compulsiveness required me to do the circuit machines in the predetermined order of a set routine. Superstitiously, I used the same weight I have been doing since I started losing weight a year ago. I exerted the same amount of energy by pushing the weights for the same amount of repetitions. I kept my heart elevated, pausing only for water breaks every fifteen minutes on the hour. I repeatedly cleaned off the machines with paper towels. More than once or twice, I fastidiously checked myself in the mirror. I ended my workout when the secondhand struck twelve exactly one hour later. Nine seconds over my mark, my lips almost moved to voice disapproval. I proceeded to the locker room, where I called another man insane.