Zombies At The Gym
It’s
I stumble out of bed, fight off Mr. Sandman and stare with a feeling of impending doom outside the window. Sunshine is lost in the horizon and all that stares back is the prospect of a rain-filled day of slow trains and yucky feet. I begin the morning trudge through the chill of the breeze, chocolate-brown slush and a violent downpour of rain.
My resolve is strong. I make it to the gym, a snazzy looking outfit equipped with a steam room, compact lockers, a low-fat food bar and trendy equipment. 3 women are sitting at the reception discussing the latest in Page 3 gossip.
The self-absorbed career-oriented set are already huffing and puffing their way to fitness nirvana. The best machines located in the line of vision of the television set are already taken. Today’s broadcast is eye candy in the guise of raunchy music videos. Everyone seems lost in their own train of thought, possibly plotting and planning their manoeuvres for the day ahead.
My new discman keeps me company. A CD belts out dance music and techno beats. With peppy music in my ears, my pessimism dissipates and paves the way for progressive thoughts. Like the hard-bound copy of a Charles Dickens’ A Tale of two Cities which waits to be read, a google search on the life and times of Dido which needs to be conducted and the weekend which needs to be eagerly anticipated in the next 4 days.
After an hour of cardio, breakfast follows at the low-cal gym bar. I sip on freshly crushed watermelon juice and tuck into a surprisingly yummy, supposedly low calorie chicken wrap at super-subsidised rates.
I look in the mirror. The light bounces off my cheeks. It’s a good sign. My skin is glowing. I feel pleased…
