My gym is the most depressing place on earth. The only reason I'm training there this summer is because a. it's for free and b. it's in the same place where my physio works so I'll always have him around to ask questions etc.
Let me paint you the picture: it's sterile in light wood floor and white walls. All the equipment follows colour pattern blue/white or light grey. There is one piece of equipment for each machine (except for the bikes, there are 5 bikes) and there is no planning done for the placements, but machines are chucked out here and there. It's about the size of a standard kitchen. There is no music at all.
The only people who come here are injured and treated by the physios here. Middle-aged or above, pouchy elders dressed in Adidas sweatpants which are put a leeeeettle bit too high in the waist, matching t-shirts and more often than not a funky sweatband around the head.
It is a place for the misfits of the Universe, the ones who's taken a blow and are stappling to find their way back. Sometimes there is a younger person there - me - and I can for once feel young and fresh and skinny among the 50-something beer bellies bursting through tight t-shirts.
Thank god for CJ and MJ.
x
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