No hairy legs at the gym

The beauty abounds.  Most of them are shiny, bronzed, their clothes glow with an achievement that only effort awards.

They are dedicated, each and every day.  At least most of them.  They know each other, they know everyone.

This is all so literal, it couldn’t be staged.  It’s perfect with a side of smug.  They know they’re perfect.  They’re in the club of perfection.  Even though anyone can join, only these remain.

Entering this womb, the enclosure that protects us from the world, from nature, I find the similarities endless.  Until the locker room.  That’s where anarchy reigns.

Once the exterior is removed, like a skin suit sloughed off periodically, it’s only the vulnerable and vain that remain.  Towels that are too small, or just the right size.  Views that are exhibited but most of them hidden.  Bashful, shy.  No matter the diversity or how cosmopolitan it might seem, there’s no hairy legs at the gym.

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