Halfway through my daily work out, sweat spitting out of every pore, leaving me looking more like a drowning victim than a gym bunny, I decided it was time to let my weary eyes rest from the dismally pessimistic calorie counter. I refused to believe that for all my toil, pain, and ghastly boob sweat I hadn't even burned off that single afternoon vice cookie. Or two. I convinced myself that those things were never right. Anyway, fitness was a state of wellbeing. It wasn't about the
figure as shown on the 18 televisions different channels and barely dressed reality show stars more belittling than the calorie counter. Less vulgar but more eccentric, was an entire satellite array of radio stations, my favorite being Euro-dance, the little disco in my head suddenly making the sweat stench radiating from my undulating undercarriage a little sexier. I did tend to make a tiny bit of a spectacle out of myself, bobbing and bouncing to the enthused, dance cage beat. On milder days, when I wasn't quite ready for Ibiza, I rather enjoyed body envying as incentive to actually do that extra 15 minutes. Usually, I tired after a few minutes of staring down Giselle ribcages but there was that oh-so-rare occasion when you, if you watched, found something truly extraordinary.

A young man entered the gym and he stood, back turned to the lines of cardio machines pumping up and down with triathlets and model figures. For reasons unwarranted, I suspected nothing less than treachery. Theoretically, no one interested in the self-preserving act of exercise walked into a place of fitness and wasted their time standing. Busy life left no time taking in the testosterone and wafting stale perspiration. Protocol said dash in with purpose, shaking you calves and stretching you triceps while racing for the racquetball court, weight machine, or treadmill you need to properly expend all your remaining energy then stumble, exhausted, ego shattered into the locker room where you think the showers must be a ride at Disneyland, the line is so long. If you had an hour to lose before picking Johnny up from soccer practice or meeting Suzie to study for that exam tomorrow at 9am, it would take all your cunning to bust your ass and fly out of the parking lot toward space itself.

No one came to the gym and stood there. It was disrespect. It was not done.

The young man turned. At a glance, all appearances added up — suave athletic shorts a little too short and sleeveless UnderArmour except — I had to blink. What was that in his hand? Norwegian artisan bottled water? A new portable music device? Personal organizer? E-Book? It looked like, well, it looked like a cup of coffee — a corporate emblazoned recycled paper heat-sheathed plastic non-biodegradable dome lidded coffee cup.

Coffee cup.

Gym.

Coffee cup in the gym.

Was it possible?

Did they even allow it?

He took a sip. I missed a step on my treadmill, stumbling momentarily, and, luckily, not falling off. Mister marathon casually judged me from two over, no sort of sympathy in his insolent eyes. Apparently he didn't catch the spectacle. I looked around. Was anyone else seeing this or was I hallucinating, some terrible exhaustion induced fever coming upon me as I neared my fifth mile?