The Gymnasium

Penises everywhere. Sitting in a damp, sweaty locker room surrounded by walking, wrinkled prunes of men with graying hair and glasses—whom, did I mention, are naked—is not how I envisioned adulthood to be like.

At least put on your underwear, Mr. Geriatric, when you raise your right leg and firmly plant your foot on the bench near me to stretch your hamstrings, your toes wiggling with dreams of past alacrity.

I lose focus when I come here, and supposedly I come here to find it.

The college gymnasium wasn’t like this, no. We rabid brainiacs staved off all those 50-plus cake candle bearers with our shiny skin pulled taut across our cheeks. The towel racks? Ours. The handball courts? Youth-owned and operated.

Life is different with the elderly in my life, baring all. College wasn’t like this. I miss it.