I go to Gold’s Gym, perhaps the closest I would ever get to the A-listers. Not that I want to get any closer, just mentioning. Gold’s Gym is unlike any gym I have ever been to, well that’s not too may, but quite a few you know. It’s the first gym, where I don’t queue up for the treadmill; where machines don’t make my hands greasy; where I find more than two nine pound dumbbells, where I don’t cringe at the thought of using the mat; where every single air conditioner works and so does every cardio machine; where there are 4 awesome instructors, all of them awesome; where I look forward to those post workout showers; where the locker room looks exactly like how random sweet teenage movies on HBO told us would, where every corner is squeaky clean and often pretty; this is the gym, which I have been most regular to.
And this is also the gym, where people [both men and women] come to feel good and just that; where lonely married women come to seek single men; where lonelier married men come to run away from the domestic hum-drum; where the rich and the beautiful come to be reassured they are rich and beautiful; where pleasantly plump young girls come to shed the flab and regain their sense of worth; where the not so pleasantly plump ladies sweat hard [or so they think] to reclaim their husbands or whatever that was once theirs.
Gold’s Gym is a sanctuary of sorts, a kind of escape that tells you there’s hope. Maybe a lesser gym can get you the body that you seek, but not the place that you would want to run away to, each day. A place that tells you, you are okay.