I have a routine that suits me fine.

I attend the gym around a quarter to nine.

Each morning as I walk through the doors.

My ears are assaulted by a long, loud roar.

“Step up, Step up, 1,2,3!”

“Up High! Down low! Bend those knees!”

The personal trainer is a young, excited fellow.

With a pair of lungs on him, comparable to a pair of old rusty bellows.

I sneak past the group, trying my hardest to not be seen.

As I make my way to the onsite canteen.

I fill my sports bottle with water to help keep me hydrated.

Then make my way past grunting bodies, lifting bars heavily weighted.

The gym smells of blood, sweat, and tears.

The air hung heavy with confidence and feelings of “no fear.”

I reach my destination, the yoga mat.

Forgotten, in the gym's corner, next to a stand for coats and hats.

Relaxing as I sink to the floor, I begin my workout with a languid stretch.

First my leg muscles, then my arms, slowly, one by one, I flex.

Downward dog and salutation to the sun, now my exercise has begun.

My warmup complete, I move on to the cardio machines.

My inspiration is to fit into a new pair of jeans.

My heart is beating fast now.

There are beads of perspiration flowing from my brows.

I look to the personal trainer, his class now ending.

His students, finishing with what looks like contortion and bending.

Maybe next week, I will begin my morning to the beat of a Sargeant Major.

For now, though, my mornings begin with a trip to the gym followed by my favourite ice cream flavour.