New gym

In the new gym I enrolled in, the coach, a petite lady in her late twenties or early thirties, wearing close-fitting gym clothes, asked me what I wanted. Her statement felt like a scripted goal-setting question she often asked clients who walked in to enroll. I said, “Strength training. I want to build muscles for health.” I did not, at that point, discuss with her the importance of maintaining sufficient muscle mass, and the association between sarcopenia and longevity and quality of life. I also didn’t tell her I didn’t want to be inconsistent. I couldn’t tell my patients to exercise when I myself didn’t. I would reserve my confessions for later. It was 7 am, the start of the week, and the people were still having breakfast at home, getting ready for work.

She looked at me closely and said, amid the blaring 90’s upbeat music, “Oh, toning.”

“Yes, yes, that.”

“And maybe . . .  this?” She pointed at my soft flabs, my father's genetic legacy, and she made a circular motion in the air. “Charis.”

She smiled and put me to work.

I liked her instantly.