Had I known that I would like muscles so much, I would have joined a gym long ago. I do wish there were less exhibitionists in the locker room, because no amount of working out is going to make me black with a big dong, so stop.

I have managed to make one friend, however. I don't know his name, but I see him in the locker room daily. He's a forty year old, balding, black man with a snaggletooth so severe that it protrudes even when his mouth is closed. I consider him a friend because after a sweaty work out, he congratulates me with nonsensical rants like, “It's not who can lift four hundred pounds. It's who can cross the finish line.”

The thing that really won my heart was his resourcefulness. The other day he entered the sauna while I was in it and laid out his towel and washcloth. He put a sign on them that read, "Do not move. I am drying my towel and washcloth." Meanwhile, he deposited a can of soup on top of the sauna heater and left. Ten minutes later, he re-entered, peeled back the lid, and ate his hot soup straight from the can. It's like the locker room is his Terminal ; kitchen, bath, and living room all rolled into one.

"I don't know about you,” he said biting into a steamy Pop-Tart, “but after I work out, I get a big sweet tooth.” This is an odd statement, because despite seeing him in the locker room every Monday through Friday, I have never seen my friend exercise. He just hangs out in a perpetual state of getting dressed or undressed.

When I change into my fitness clothes, he's half naked on a bench eating his soup and giggling, “You know one day rich people are going to be working out in space.” When I return to the locker room forty-five minutes later, he remains bare-chested wearing only slacks, and watching the TV set to CNN. “Those insurgents should wear dresses to hide their body armor.”

We chuckle over nothing as I put my work shoes back on and flatten my wet hair in the mirror. “Uh oh,” he says, “The party's over.”

Until tomorrow, snaggletooth. Until tomorrow.