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Either I have been partnered during my stack of memberships or, more usually, I have had no interest in romance among the kettle bells.
In the dank, municipal hellholes where I like to work out, I have somehow known instinctively that Mr Right was not lurking by the lockers.
An egalitarian woman that doesn't consider herself elite just because she can afford a better haircut.
Thinks my dog is cute, even when she wets her muzzle in the water dish and bee-lines for his groin. Gets why I cry when I hear "Sunrise, Sunset." Knows "Do these jeans make my butt look big?
Would rather hang out with me than the guys, but knows that I'll miss him more if he goes.
Unless you climb up inside one of the three or four pathetic air con units protruding from the wall like tin-covered beer guts, you’re unlikely to experience anything more than a light breeze that feels like it’s coming from several planets away.
Thus it takes no more than three half-hearted tugs on a machine that likes to call itself “Lat Pulldown” (very Star Wars cantina) before I am tomato-red, gasping and dripping in vodka-infused perspiration.