I hit the gym after work yesterday...
The continuing efforts to outrun this cold are well underway. Its symptom-set has turned shifty, moving from runny nose over to achy, then to absurd feverish tendencies, and now over to a sore throat and the ever-present frog that resides there. I tell you, I've never felt more attractive in all my life. Well, not since my
foray into search terms last year. It's good to see that I put my best face forward...and so aptly, too.
I finished my bout on the treadmill yesterday and staggered to the back room to stretch out my quivering legs. I sort of go into autopilot in the stretching, and I suppose it tends to look rather yoga-ish to the onlookers. I was doing a simple forward bend from cobbler's pose...similar to "butterfly stretch" if you remember the days of elementary school calisthenics. A large man entered the studio then, a room I had, until that point, had to myself.
He wasn't overly tall, but stout...or stocky. I saw him only out of the corner of my eye, my face being pressed to the mat as it was, but I was shocked to hear his voice as he spoke to me. It was high and English-tinged in a dye of utmost sophistication. I fully expected him to throw in a "hitherto" or "hence" in his soft alto. "Will I ruin your serenity if I use the punching bag over here?" he asked politely.
"No, not at all! Do what you need to do! I'll be fine!" And so, I continued with my pose, then moved to another...all to the soundtrack of grunting and punching. I reclined on my back and stretched my feet and hands as far as they would go in opposite directions and relaxed. My transient roommate took a break from his routine as well.
"You will need to write a poem. 'Sun salutations to the rhythm of the heavy bag' me thinks." With that, he left the room, and I am still left in a quandary at such a contradictory fellow. Rocky Balboa with the voice and gentility of Rupert Everett?
...it tickles the brain.
