Well I don't know if I can do lunch, I really have to get to the gym," (High-pitched pleased-with-self chuckle) "No thank you, but I really don't look cute, I'm all sweaty and gross from the gym," "Nah dude, don't have time for beer pong tourney tonight, I gotta lift before I finish this finance bullshit." Thanks be to god they shelled out the money to revamp Gimble Gymnasium into a state-of the-art fitness facility.
Personally, I can't think of a better place to be than the David Pottruck Health and Fitness Center. I walked in the other day and as I swiped my card at the main entrance, locked eyes with Mr. Pottruck himself depicted with his wife in an inspiring portrait which hangs on the wall. Pottruck has his chubby fingers wrapped around the shoulders of his chubby wife staring ahead grinning. We locked eyes, the two of us. I could hear him cheering me on, in one of the most profound moments of mutual understanding I've had.
"Go on, boy, do what I couldn't, work off that fat that I could never bring myself to part with! Find yourself someone to grow old with, someone younger and less rotund than this hunk of beef!" I had to warm up on the seated bike, I was so emotionally shaken up. Mr. Pottruck wanted for us what he could never get close enough to grasp in his own youth: sexual conquest. And -- by God! -- in that moment of realization, tears came to my eyes and my feet fell from the peddles of the bike. I got up and looked around, so happy to know that if Mr. Pottruck were here in person there'd be tears in his eyes, too.
For the rest of my time at the gym that day I floated through each room in a beautiful daze. Pottruck was right there with me; he saw what I saw, felt what I felt, sweated when I sweated (although slightly more profusely). What we experienced that day was proof that all his money was put to good use; his dream was being realized on a daily basis. There was a tiny woman surging in circles on the elliptical machine downstairs, her tiny limbs in danger of flying off due to the lack of calcium in her diet of fruit shakes to successfully hold joints in place, but she'd lose a limb before she'd spoil Pottruck's ambition. The pain on her tiny, emaciated face was clear: she was here to share in my mentor's beautiful dream. Lunch would have to wait.
Her spirit carried me upstairs to the weight room. I sat myself on one of the benches across from the weights, and stared into wall's expanse of shimmering mirror. Tiny whimpers of physical exhaustion had been replaced by a chorus of primal grunting. Men dangled their testicles, sheathed by baggy shorts, over their lifting buddies' heads shouting instructions, while their supine friends grunted insatiably. I could tell that Pottruck's dream had a new fantastic existence here as well, and here, the initial stages of sexual conquest had begun unraveling themselves within the facility.
I walk slowly towards the third floor, contemplating all that I have witnessed thus far. Can there really be more? A third floor? I find a smaller room with exercise mechanisms of lesser quality for all the scrawny freshman incapable of using weights properly, fat-pimply grad students, international students unaware of American body image standards, among other general rejects. I'm just so Goddamn pleased.
I slowly walk down the three flights of stairs towards the exit, recalling each magical experience contained on each magnificent floor. I blow the Pottrucks a kiss on my way out. "I won't let you down, ol' buddy," I stumble over the words, in a furvor of emotion, "I'm gonna be here every day of my college career, sir, every damn day and you can be sure my choice of sexual partners is going to be all the richer thanks to you." The man at the front desk hands me a tissue on my way out. I'm wiping my eyes on my way down the stairs as I pass a rather obese woman taking a much needed break at the midpoint. "Are you all right, son?" she asks. "Yeah," I whimper, "Just tell me which way to the intramural sports office"
