I want a six pack. So bad.

Everyone in the weight room watches the track team –one girl in particular, with a mop top, who is practicing hurdles. In her spandex pants you can see the lines of function in her legs. I try not to think it’s creepy because she’s in high school and most of us are middle aged men.

Times like this I wish someone hadn’t already said “poetry in motion” and that this phrase hadn’t been picked up and repeated in every form of popular media so that I could say she is poetry in motion and it wouldn’t be the least original thing ever said about a runner’s body.

I don’t know if it’s because this is the community gym or what, but I’m higher than usual in lifting skill as compared to my compatriots. This tall kid comes in and does bicep curls that look like convulsions. However, I have to go early enough to run before the track team starts, because I will not be seen –typographical errors in motion– running anywhere near them. I do feel less like dying when I finish my one lap, which means, dammit, that I have to keep at it because it’s working.


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