Kris and I are working out. We're pumping iron in a boutique gym; he's working arms and I'm struggling on my legs. The pain is immense. I try not to show it, although my poker-face is clouded with sweat. Kris doesn't seem to mind, he's focused on honing his bulk, face clenched and grimaced. He's a tank already, all shoulders and quads. I'm no runt, but I am being absolutely dwarfed by some of the behemoths striding about the room. They sway their arms proudly, straight-backed, biceps at the ready. Some of them are trainers, pounding their charges with more reps, more weight. A poor little man looks as though he's about to burst, he's beetroot red, and there are tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. His trainer shows no mercy.
It's quite obvious what the deal is here. Man lift, woman run. Simple enough. Pop music blasts out of speakers attached to the ceiling, and music videos spray the action from plasma screens, animated surrealism where still life won't do. It's a sensory experience, warm and wet from gyrating limbs, endorphins streaming, all of this grunting and groaning while JT serenades himself to a relentless drum pattern.
There's no time to think here. Just move it, work it, stretch it, lift it. These exteriors are eye candy, rippled stomachs and toned behinds. There's not a lot of talking, either. It's too loud, too busy. Stairmasters and bench pressing is not the time for growth of the soul. The mirrors surrounding us all seem to reinforce that fact; it's what's outside that counts. No one takes you seriously in our world, not if you don't look the part.
Amidst the strain, the pain in my calves, I see that the people in dynamic suspension around me are the execs in the ad agencies, the managers of the promo teams, the sales force that convinces those outside, the formless mass, to eat the crap that prevents them from looking this good. The people in the ads on TV, the blonde beauties, the grinning jocks, the ones on the screen holding the triple-bacon and extra mayo Whatsit Burger - they are all around me, shredding the fat from their bones, running on treadmills in fear of the effects of the products they purvey.
They are all so pretty and empty.
