Fans blow desperately needed air through the gym. Sweat is trickling down cheeks, causing puddles on shared surfaces, drenching equipment. Who really needs a towel when the scorching sun is burning through the roof, right?
My eyes scan the gym. All my favourite actors and actresses are present today.
Miss Gucci hat adjusts her pink, lycra outfit to make the years of dedication and the purchased twins stand out. She’s ostentatiously annoyed by all the hungry eyes, while simultaneously absorbing the validation.
Next to her, pressed against one of many mirrors, stands her male equivalent. Barely able to keep his T-shirt on he gropes himself and slaps his own ass. Whispering compliments into his own ear.
Fortunately, the sound of the narcissist fervently making out with his reflection is drowned out by the motivational music coming from numerous speakers. Dancing queen, for that extra dose of adrenaline and aggression.
I pass by four students occupying a machine for an unknown amount of time. Next to them, a man is imitating the monster of Frankenstein. He’s grunting as if he’s giving birth in reverse. Cap backwards, a stringer to prove that men have nipples too and a bunch of tattoos purchased at a gumball machine.
He’s standing, performing his bicep curls. I walk over, hold my phone next to his face and let Google Translate do its trick. The grunting continues, the translation commences: “Look! At! Me! Look! At! Me! Ack-now-ledge my ex-is-tence!”
I hold my breath, waiting for the encore. He doesn’t dissapoint. The dumbbells get dropped to the floor. Two loud bangs. Completely unnecessary. What a legend.
I form my hands into the shape of a heart and smack him in the face. “You are so cool,” I tell him.
He tries to punch back, but an inner-arm-alarm goes off mid-punch and blocks the movement. I point at the sentence branded into his swollen bicep: “Instagram Only” it reads.
Finally I arrive at the squat rack. I see that the guy next to me is ready to depart, leaving all the weights on the barbell to be placed back by the girl wanting to use the barbell next.
The girl and I turn towards the youngster lacking decency and give him a thumbs up. “Thanks, count minus the o,” we say. “You’re so considerate.”
He waves at us with his eleven fingers, smiles and limps off to the entrance where his father and mother, who by pure coincidence happen to be siblings, are waiting for him.
I finish my warm-up and begin the first exercise. Enjoying another day in Circus Narcissism.
This website is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thank you!
Be sure to follow: www.instagram.com/campdky
I wrote a novel! It’s available on: https://www.amazon.com/Vic-Koopmans-ebook/dp/B0B6TC4WX9/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=GWSYPFYSYYSU&keywords=vic+koopmans+head+first&qid=1658281167&sprefix=vic+koopmans+headfirst%2Caps%2C127&sr=8