A few weeks ago, I returned to the gym after what we’ll call a “personal hiatus.” It was just long enough to be awkward when I walked back in the heavy glass doors, but not long enough for the folks at the front desk to forget me.
As I moved through the lobby and past a bulletin board, I think I spotted my mug on a "missing" poster.
A few minutes later, I settled into my pre-prodigal son routine. Familiar faces smiled when they saw me, and a gentleman old enough to be my great-great-great-grandfather lapped me on the indoor track with a Sony Walkman strapped to his hip.
When I dragged my body back through the lobby an hour later, my muscles politely asked if they could suspend my membership.
By the next morning, they were clamoring for a complete cancellation.