Once upon a time, Lisa and Adrienne worked for the same alternative newsweekly. Now, both spend their respective lives mining their creative souls and leading hermit-like lives. And so an idea was hatched. Every week, one would send the other a sketch—either in illustration or word form—and the other would make a companion to the sketch. The result would be posted on both their blogs every week, just for grins. Even if the result isn't award-worthy, the exercise makes both minds more nimble. Hopefully.
Don’t get me wrong. I like my gym. As gyms go, it’s a keeper. Treadmills. A pool. Heavy things to lift and put down again. Not too many ‘roided out knuckleheads lifting weights. Almost zero young women (and, let’s face it, older women) dolled up and spandexed. It’s mostly clean.
I go. I run to nowhere. I sweat. I leave. It’s all I could want it to be, really.
And, yet, every now and again, I get that irrational rage. It comes on like a sneeze, set off by, say, the elderly man who ramps the incline on the treadmill up as high as it can go, then clutches to the sides of the machine as if he’s walking into a hurricane. Or at the 30-something woman on the stationary bike who is reading Jodi Picoult and peddling with intense slowness. Or at the college student who spends 20 minutes adjusting a fan so that it blows on her at just the right angle and speed. Or at the moms in the locker rooms who take up the entire bench in order to get their singular kid into a swim suit.
I don’t know where it comes from, the rage. Maybe, after so many years of suppressing it, it is burning off with every tenth calorie expended.
Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.