The Gym

I hadn’t seen her for three years. She looked good. When she was with me she was chubby. She was forever eating sweets, unable to watch a film without a bag of gluttony to throw at her face. However, it appeared that those days were over and she had found a gym membership. This was total bollocks of course. She had clearly just been single for long enough to run a bit. The health kick had merely paused her appetite, it would return as soon as she felt loved.

‘Oh my God! It’s you! I thought you were away?’

‘No, I’ve moved back home. You look really good, have you lost weight?’

‘Three stones! I’ve got really into the gym! You feel so much better for it!’

‘Good, I’m glad you like it.’

She didn’t like that comment and looked confused through her smile. I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to pretend that I also liked the gym. If she liked it, she liked it. I wasn’t going to agree that exercise was the resolution.

‘Yeah, well I’ve been going to the gym about three times a week!’

She wanted me to be impressed by her new longer life expectancy. Extending the opportunity to feel self pity was not something I was interested in. I couldn’t understand it either. Living a longer life by wasting it in a gym wasn’t a worthwhile exchange. I’ll happily die a bit earlier to avoid thinking about my body shape, expecting some control over it and wasting time puffing and panting. The gym has taken off because the television and magazines can sell it. We haven’t got healthier or had some enlightenment, we’ve just been sold an idea that fitness makes you happy. It’s a lie. It will help you to find more attractive women but if they’re picking you based the myth that you will keep this body once you’re married, they’re mistaken and far too shallow.

‘Well, that’s good for you, I’m glad you’ve found a passion.’

‘What do you mean?’

She felt that I was judging her in some way as I was refusing to state what I felt.

‘Nothing. I’m just happy for you. You seem to really enjoy it.’

I knew her too well and she was aware of it. She knew that she was a pig on a diet. We’d been together for one year and she had never expressed any desire to do any exercise other than walking between two points. Her passion was food. She would look at menus online before we went for dinner, she’d ask my mum to make certain dishes when we went over, we went on holiday primarily to eat. I didn’t care about this at the time. I enjoyed her enthusiasm and her metabolism took care of most of the damage. However, she could not argue that she’d had some sort of epiphany. She was twenty nine and wanted a child. She needed to exhibit that she would be fit for child bearing. That was it, basic physiology.

‘Well, you don’t seem very happy.’

I looked at her in the eye, putting my hand on her shoulder.

‘Look, I’m happy for you, you look good.’

Having to accept that I’d said nothing negative, she ended her pursuit. As we were both waiting for people, we resolved to catch up. I ordered drinks and we sat down.

‘So, how have you been then? How was it whilst you were away?’

‘It was good. I really enjoyed the sun and obviously it was more laid back then here. I also met my girlfriend there, so I can’t really argue that it wasn’t worthwhile.’

‘Really? How long have you been with her? I’ve seen nothing on Facebook about it.’

That was her other passion, following the lives of people she once knew.

‘Yeah, well, I don’t go on that too much. I just send the odd message.’

‘Right.’

She wasn’t pleased that I’d been living my life away from the public eye, unable to understand a person who preferred privacy to bragging.

‘Well, you won’t know that I’ve started seeing someone then. His name’s Mark and we’ve been dating for two weeks.’

I knew of this man. Pictures of them covered my newsfeed whenever I logged in. He was the man you’d expect her to be dating. Average looking, gym goer, football player, a few friends, wore what was in fashion and stone cold dead behind the eyes. I was surprised, however, that she was still on the health kick. I would have thought that she’d be less enthusiastic about this with a man.

‘He’s a personal trainer. I met him at the gym.’

‘Ahh very nice.’ She’d answered my question. ‘What’s that like then? Is there competition to be the fittest?’

I thought I’d drill down a bit.

‘Yeah, a little bit. But there’s always pressure when you have a partner, isn’t there.’

Bullshit. There was no pressure with me. She was too passionate about reinventing herself to notice that she was speaking to someone who actually knew her.

‘I really enjoy the gym and it’s nice learning how to do it properly. He knows how to train but also how to eat right. Eating well is the main part of it.’

‘Sorry, what are you training for?’

‘No, ‘training’ is just the word for working out.’

It was becoming too much. Training was clearly a word to justify spending hours and hours doing nothing. If you called it ‘training’ then it sounded like there was a reason for your existence. And the phrase ‘knows how to train’, doesn’t everyone? You run a bit, lift some shit up and leave. Yes, you probably need to know how much to lift and how to lift it, but it’s not impressive. It’s just learning a routine and learning what to put in your mouth.

Mark then entered. He was vascular. She greeted him.

‘Mark! How are you?! How was your session?!’

‘Yeah, it was good. I got a PB on chest.’

‘Wow! Well done baby! This is Jonny, he’s an old friend, we bumped into each other.’

‘You alright pal?’

‘Yeah. Congratulations on the PB.’

‘Cheers man, I’ve been sleeping well recently, so my recovery has been good. It’s nice to start nicking a few PBs, you know what I mean? It’s good when the hard work pays off.’

I nodded and stared back. The man talked about lifting weights like he was actually contributing to something other than his own vanity. Fair enough if he was some world beating weight lifter. Even this wouldn’t be that impressive, but at least he’d be interesting in a freakish, ‘look what humanity is capable of’, way. But this man wasn’t even the biggest person in the bar. The bartender would be odds on favourite in a fight. However, she admired him. She’d seen this man and decided that he was doing something with his life that he was admirable.

‘So Jonny, do you lift?’

‘Lift what?’

‘Weights. Do you go to the gym?’

She smirked, sensing an opportunity to outnumber me. Make a rational lifestyle something which was embarrassing whilst justifying the lies she told herself.

‘What do you think baby? Jonny, has never been near a gym.’

‘Well, if you want pal, I can give you a free PT session. You wouldn’t even need to join the gym.’

‘Yeah Jonny, go on, go to the gym.’

This was insane. To go to the gym to be trained like some fighter for absolutely no reason was the equivalent of me learning to make fire from flint. I live in the modern world, strength has no practical value. However, I was intrigued. Having never been to witness them all in one room, I felt compelled. It would be interesting to see so many people wasting their lives, believing that they are somehow better than others because they are fitter.

‘Alright, when?’

Her face changed to shock.

‘Tomorrow at nine suit you? It’s called Typhoon Rooms, it’s on Longwell Street.’

‘See you then.’

My girlfriend arrived and I left. She questioned my desire to go to the gym, knowing the pointlessness of viewing pointlessness in action. She was right but there was art in it somewhere.

I arrived at 9.15. Sally and I had drunk heavily at dinner and my body protested with consciousness. After being sick, I had made the journey to the Typhoon Rooms. He was waiting for me.

‘Jonny! Come on mate, you’re late! I have another session at ten. You’ve missed fifteen minutes already. I’m going to work you for this!’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re late, but that doesn’t mean that we won’t fit an hour’s session into forty five minutes!’

Christ, what a cock. This didn’t sound fun. I spent the next part of my life squatting, running, jumping, standing on half an aerated ball, performing sit ups, pull ups and things I can’t remember the name of. I was sick in the bin twice and by the end of it I hated Mark. Mark asked if I wanted to become a member. I was so exhausted that he wasn’t surprised or offended when I refused. I then sat up in the gym cafe, my appetite begging me to feed it. The cafe was on a balcony which overlooked the gym floor. I was too drained to enjoy the voyeurism but was resolute in viewing what I’d come to view. Men lifted weights whilst being congratulated by their mate, occasionally staring into the thousands of mirrors which made you look wider than you were. Women wore the tightest clothes possible, attempting to look attractive to people running behind them. Some women clearly went here a lot and divided their time between weights and flirting with men in a very energetic and obvious way. Teenagers shook as they tugged on weights too heavy for them and the world continued to spin. It was a confidence factory. If you were a man, you arrived thin or fat and left strong and, in your head, more attractive. The girls all arrived fat and left thin, with the same sense of self worth.

However, they were all chasing a dream which required them to be asleep. If you left the gym, you’d return to your former self. No one’s body wanted to be massive or without fat, it wanted to look normal. Controlling your body like this must be a draining process. Having the thought that you will wilt if you don’t continue to stand in a room can’t be sustainable or enjoyable. Surely thousands of years of progress haven’t led us to a dead end where we are slaves to doing the most amounts of reps or lifting the heaviest weight. The Egyptians gave us free time so that we could develop medicine, theology and essentially improve what we know. These cunts were wasting it.

My ex-girlfriend had just entered the gym and I took my opportunity. I pulled out my rifle and shot everyone in there. The massacre wasn’t well received by the authorities but I didn’t labour my explanation. If they couldn’t understand what I knew then I wouldn’t waste my time trying to convince them of what they didn’t. Sat in my cell I had nothing to do so I started to exercise. My prison officer asked me about this.

‘Bit ironic isn’t it lad? You killed a load of gym goers but you’re in here doing gym stuff.’

‘Yes, but I have nothing else to do.’