At the gym there are people who stretch for an hour,
Then call it a workout and head for a shower.
They carry a bottle, they carry a towel —
But breaking a sweat?
Now that’s not their style.
Some come to “train,” but the truth’s on display:
They scroll more steps than they take in a day.
The treadmill moves slowly, their thumbs move fast —
Their cardio’s great…
if texting counts as class.
You’ll find them posing with confident grace,
Checking each angle, each shadow, each face.
They flex for the mirror, they flex for the air —
The weights? Decorative.
They don’t go near there.
And then there are girls in immaculate wear,
Full makeup, perfume, freshly ironed hair.
They glide on machines for a moment or two —
Careful not to sweat…
it might smudge the view.
The boys wear tight vests with their muscles on show,
Strutting the gym like a personal runway glow.
They lift just enough to appear in their prime —
Then spend the next half-hour
perfecting the line.
Some wander around without touching a thing,
Pretending they’re hunting for “that leg machine.”
They circle in loops like confused GPS —
An Olympic display
of impressive aimlessness.
And others come mainly to mingle and chat:
“Hey bro! Long time!”
“Did you hear about that?”
Their workout is gossip, repeated in sets —
They burn more calories
collecting regrets.
But somehow the gym still reports a good scene —
proving that watching other people work out
should count as routine.
And yet the place stays spotless, tidy, and clean —
because half of its members
never touch a machine.
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