Oh, let me tell you, I’m in that fabulous phase of life where youthful enthusiasm has waved goodbye, and my body has embraced the art of shapelessness. More padding than a couch, I tell you! And it's not the kind of development you’d write home about. But then, I stumbled upon this term called sarcopenia. Apparently, muscle mass starts playing a disappearing act at the rate of 3-8% per decade after 30. Well, isn’t that just scary? So, I decided it was high time to take matters into my own hands and drag myself to the gym. Now, gymming has never been my forte. I mean, who enjoys doing repetitive exercises to songs that sound like alien languages, all while avoiding the glaring truth in those wall-to-wall mirrors? Disaster in the making, I say! But hey, why not make it fun? I started spinning stories about my fellow gym-goers. Not shaming, mind you, just naming! Take Betty, for example. This nimble, athletic girl would hop on a huge cube like it was her personal playground. Her una
Experiences penned in poetic form...