Oh, the gym! That place we go in January to fulfil that invariable resolution to sign up. Then we wait for the muscles to fall from the sky. And – of course – they never do. We’re the “feepayers”. We never break a sweat. We prefer to get our bodies in to shape in bars bending elbows and lifting burgers. The gym makes us thinner, but only because every time we see one, we run in the other direction.

This story is about a friend who actually DOES go to the gym. A freak. Very pumped up and whatever, but a freak nonetheless. Well. So he says that one day he was doing CrossFit (CrossFit is running on a belt that somewhat resembles the travelators or moving walkways in airports) and he finished the session pumped with adrenalin. He was so pumped that his imagination went wild and he couldn’t resist going into the spa, but not alone, no. He wanted to go with the girl he usually ran into. (For drylanders, a spa offers the opportunity to take baths at different temperatures. Like Arab baths, but in an urban version: modern, hip and – more than anything else – pricey).

So my friend said that after the spa, after a session of dozens of burpees, tens of snatches, scores of muscle ups and similar-sounding words (it all sounds to me like PlayStation games; if you want to know more, search Google), the aforementioned female appeared, and insisted on watching while he changed gears during his spinning session (I think this has to do with going up and down steps, but don’t quote me on that).

Well. According to his version, the looks between the two of them heated up to the point that, just as soon as they could, they took off to sneak into the spa together (remember: modern-style Arab baths). How wonderful. At this point, I interrupted my friend to tellhim that it wasn’t surprising that gym fees were so expensive, but they were worth it.

He told me to stop interrupting him with nonsense. It’s in the spa where they really got some exercise done. All those burpees, snatches and assorted other whatnots didn’t do a thing. They heated up the water that they could have cooked some spaghetti in it. So then I cut him off to say that maybe the bubbles were because the girl had gas. Again, it wasn’t funny, and I should stop interrupting him.

They touched each other. It started slowly and subtly. And they went for it, enjoying the ride. I was so jealous! Not just because of his muscles. Also because he paid the fees and got to meet a girl like that goddess of athletic spirit. That’s all he said: no details, because he’s a gentleman and there are things that one doesn’t talk about. But the thing with the goddess was spectacular. And, hey, it wasn’t the first time he’d had an experience in that gym. “Are you sure it’s a gym?” I asked, weirded out. Sure: “what happens is that people are very attractive and they don’t spend their days bending elbows and lifting burgers in bars,” he told me. “No need to be so subtle,”

I replied. “Look,” I allowed myself to tell my muscular buddy one last thing, to get back at him: “you might know a lot about spinning, burpees and weird sports, but I’ve got a secret weapon.” And I pulled my Tokkets out of my pocket. “With this, any experience is increased infinitely, my friend.” “Yeah?” He said shocked, so perplexed his muscles kind of deflated. “Well, yes, and you can use them anywhere: in the gym or in the toilets of a bar where you’re bending your elbow and lifting burgers. Enough, man.”