Feeling Undercover at the Gym

I dress like a stereotypical jock. Dressing down is a way of making myself seem invisible. People look at me, see my bulging muscles, assume that my behind my eyes is a smooth, shiny brain.

This disguise works best in environments where the modal person isn’t a gym rat. That way the hive mind can’t identify me as outside the matrix.

I’m wearing a muscle shirt, black shorts, with a notebook. The staging is immaculate. The one problem, I’m writing terrible standup comedy.

I’m frantically scribbling notes, not about my last set and weights, but instead about things I find funny. Instead of texting on my phone, changing the music I’m listening to, I’m taking a break to write my daily blog.

I broke my streak a week or so ago, but it came back, the 154 day streak that I thought I lost, because I admittedly missed a day, returned valiantly,

I’ve been forgiven for my metaphorical sins about forgetting consistency.