The Three Musketeers

When I was working out today, a woman got off the treadmill on my right and ran to her friend on the treadmill to my left. I watched as the two of them in their perfectly coordinated work out outfits dabbed their foreheads with fresh, white towels and compared the number of sweatbeads. "What a workout!" I heard the woman with the asymmetrical haircut scream. "I love running!" said other as she walked briskly but made sure to add a little bounce here and there.

Irritated I got off my treadmill and went over to do situps next to a woman that I should have known was the third musketeer. Within minutes they were all standing over me chatting about how Betsy should have worn her other sneakers because they were the perfect shade of blue to compliment her navy yoga pants.

While I sat up, groaned and tried to touch my toes, I realized there was a hole in the crotch of my pants. There were grease stains on one leg and streaks of purple marker on the other. My sneakers were black and pink, my pants were grey and green and my shirt was purple. And instead of using a fresh white towel to wipe the sweat off my head, I had used the bottom of my shirt so it looked like I had spilled water down my front.

In college, when I first started going to the gym, I would marvel at women like the three musketeers. Admire them. Try to dress like them. And cry that I never could figure out how to look like anything but an uncoordinated sweaty mess while I was working out.

But now, I am just grateful to be at the gym. I admire the grease stain that came from Owen wiping his mouth on my right leg instead of the napkin and Josie's drawing on my right leg. I see the hole in my pants as a sign that there are more important things to spend money on.

I finished stretching, placing my left hand in front of my crotch to cover up the rip that kept ripping. I got up and smiled at the 3 musketeers before walking outside, getting in my car and rushing home to see my family that I pathetically missed during my hour away.