Working Out High: A Personal Experience

By Lucas Dean Fiser

We hit a pipe of Sour Diesel inside my friend Kevin’s steamy one-bedroom apartment and called Lynn, his new personal trainer.

The Green Door Fitness gym is a hole in the wall with a big tractor tire out front on the sidewalk that I suspected was for new-age workouts and also sufficed as a form of free advertisement. The A/C had gone out. On the wall, above the water fountain and beneath the modishly exposed piping, was a signboard with a Thomas Jefferson quote: “If you want something you’ve never had, you must be willing to do something you’ve never done.” Kevin read the sign aloud as though he was really saying: This place is out of our league.

Lynn, who I don’t believe knew we were stoned, showed us to a locker. She was a tanned, middle-aged Southerner with sinewy muscles — intermittently she spoke over the sound of her beeping wristwatch. Behind us, a sweaty couple carved from petrified wood had moved from yoga mats to weight sets. The woman flicked at her partner’s arm band. “We will never reach our ten thousand steps!”

The air was ripe with an energized anxiety — the molecules which lick up fat — turning average men and women into Renaissance sculptures.

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