Young, nubile women. Long, silky, lean legs. Shiny, tight, short shorts. Eager eyes, smooth complexions, beautiful white teeth. Some type of recreational aquatic sports team was in the gym after their swim. You would think as a virile male I would’ve preened, maybe lifted heavier weights, maybe flirted with the young beauties, maybe established myself as the alpha male. How you would know I’ve become a bitter old man is the fact that despite everything I’ve described all I could think about was their chicken heads clucking incessantly. Not a one of them was there to actually exercise. It was a social convention. Laughter, flappery, irritating distractions keeping me from being in the zone.
Finally, they’ve left. I can finish in peace. It’s possible I had my priorities wrong, preferring the quiet solitude of a good workout over the opportunity to dazzle a group of young women. Meh. Young girls are a dime a dozen. Being my personal best is forever.