Joe Six-Pack

When someone holds your tummy in their hands, and says your name in a tone that combines both disgust and awe, it's time to hit the gym.

The gym is apartheid at its finest, with puny mortals like me scraping up Mount Olympus, while toned Gods, idly flick rocks and beads of sweat at the scrambling masses. The air here reeks of jealousy and testosterone, as the have-nots flick looks at those benching their own body weight. Though the divisions between the 2 sides are firmly entrenched, you get the occasional sycophant. A Gollum like creature, scampering between the benches, collecting the sweat of the Muscular into a Nalgene bottle, revering it as he would an amphora of Ambrosia.

I'm working on my physique, and often time I catch myself daydreaming of the day when I shall bandy about medicines balls as though they were merely the testicles of Zeus. I imagine walking among the ranks of the buff, comparing the visibility of our veins and pinching each others flanks as though we were sizing up cattle.

For now, however, three more sets to go...

Sanju