Working out; or, It Might Not Be

I'm happy to report that I went to the gym not only on Saturday, but also on Sunday. And actually enjoyed myself. I started getting more comfortable with the layout. I started remembering to take a shower towel off the front desk when I first came in, and not after I'd already put everything in my locker. I figured out that eliptical machines are actually made for dancing, and I figured out which eliptical machines are stationed in front of ESPN and which ones are in front of VH1. I showered publicly in the rather public showers, and was both relieved and disappointed to find that My Gym is evidently frequented less by the young urban muscled horndogs that seem to populate everyone else's gym, and more by the fifty- and sixty year old retiree set. And at the end of my second session, right before engaging in my second 100 Daily Sit-Ups routine, I tore my chest open on the machine that grows your pectoral muscles, sending my weak little arms shooting into the middle of the Tae-Bo class on the other side of the gym.

If I had any hope of ever straightening my arms again, I'd totally go back for a third session.