Arms and legs flail in various directions, flesh trying desperately to keep up with the random direction changes that the routine demands.  Huffing and puffing like a senior in desperate need of a fresh oxygen tank, he tries in vain to copy the motions of the ripped samples bouncing on the TV screen in front of him.

“One, two, three, fuck, five, six…” he counts, trying desperately to keep from bursting into laughter or tears at the effort required and the strange contortions required by the leader.

“Dig within you!” screams the hulking mass of rippling muscle and sweat to the camera while bouncing through another routine at warp speed.     Eyes roll as he thrusts his over-sized bulk into the pattern of the exercise.    He is certain that, if seen by anyone else in the world, the resulting screams and mass exodus would clear the town in short order.     Thankfully, here in the basement, he is only judged by the technology that surrounds him and the unyielding concrete beneath his feet.

“Working out” — what a misnomer.   If it was phrased to be something like, “torture session”, or “sweating party” or even the gentle yet purposeful, “moving your ass brigade” it would make him feel better; unfortunately, modern culture and pop media try to make the activity sound like something that everyone enjoys and does when they are bored because, why not?   It’s working out!    We’re happy when things work out, so why not us?

The activity is a love-hate relationship, being both beneficial to his plump countenance and beating back the effects of a sit-on-your-bum job but also making him feel like the lowest of fools for even trying and completely ridiculous in the conflagrations required to even start to bring about meaningful changes in his body.   “Thin-bodied bastards,” he mumbles as he gazes at the abs of the contracted muscle currently twitching on the screen while hardly getting damp.   “Must be nice.”

This is what, day 3?   5?   8?    He can’t remember, but he’s noticing some differences — there’s always some that come along.    The routines become a bit easier, the puffing of his lungs reduces, he recovers quicker from complete exhaustion.   But the clumsiness is still present, the need to find a way to tell his body to go, “HERE, HERE, and HERE” all at the same time and — god forbid! — in rhythm.   A dancer’s legs, arms…body, he did not inherit.   Ballet never looked as grotesque as it would if he attempted Swan Lake.

He stops briefly as the mentor yells out, “One more set!”

“You must be fucking joking,” he says, incredulously.   He stands there for a minute.   And then, steeling himself, he throws out his fists and kicks high into the air and misses, but keeps going, in the hopes that it’s making a long-term difference….somehow.