As bad as i thought it would be

The gym hummed with the energy of the fit and the determined, a symphony of clanging weights, whirring treadmills, and grunts of exertion. I shuffled through the gleaming expanse, my footsteps heavy and uncertain, a stark contrast to the lithe bodies that moved around me with effortless grace. Richard, a beacon of vibrant health and boundless energy, practically bounced beside me, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

"Isn't this great, champ?" he exclaimed, his voice booming through the cavernous space. "Just feel that energy! It's invigorating!"

I grunted in response, my gaze fixed on the sweat-slicked floor. Invigorating? The air was thick with the cloying scent of exertion and desperation, a noxious blend that made my stomach churn.

Richard steered me towards the weightlifting area, his grip on my arm a touch too firm, a touch too enthusiastic. "Alright, let's start with some bench presses," he announced, his voice brimming with that infuriatingly cheerful confidence. "It's a classic for a reason!"

He effortlessly hoisted a barbell laden with weights that would have crippled me, his muscles rippling with each fluid movement. I watched, a venomous cocktail of envy and resentment brewing in my gut. He made it look so easy, so natural, while I, with my doughy physique and aching joints, felt like a grotesque parody of human potential.

"Your turn!" Richard declared, stepping aside with a grin that seemed to mock my obvious inadequacies. "Don't worry, I'll spot you."

I approached the bench with a sense of impending doom, my hands clammy, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I lay down, the cold metal a stark reminder of my own clammy flesh, and reached for the barbell. It felt impossibly heavy, an insurmountable obstacle in my trembling hands. I strained, my muscles quivering, my face contorting with effort, but the bar wouldn't budge. A pathetic wheezing sound escaped my lips, the soundtrack to my humiliation.

"Come on, champ, you got this!" Richard's voice boomed, echoing through the gym, amplifying my shame. "Push! Push! Visualize that bar rising! Feel the power!"

Visualize? Feel the power? All I could feel was the burning in my chest, the trembling in my arms, the crushing weight of my own inadequacy. I gritted my teeth, summoning every ounce of strength I could muster, but the bar remained stubbornly in place. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I had to close my eyes to fight back the nausea.

"Alright, alright," Richard said, his voice laced with a condescending amusement that made my blood boil. "Let's try something a little less… intense."

He led me to a rowing machine, his every movement radiating effortless athleticism. He explained the proper technique with that same enthusiastic zeal, his words bouncing off me like so many rubber bullets. I sat down, my legs awkwardly splayed, and grasped the handles, my fingers slipping on the sweat-slicked surface. I pulled, my back protesting with a symphony of pops and creaks, but the machine barely moved. I felt like a beached whale, my blubber quivering with each futile effort.

Richard, his optimism as relentless as the sun, suggested we try the treadmill. I trudged along, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my legs burning with each leaden step. Richard, meanwhile, ran effortlessly beside me, his pace brisk, his breathing even, his face flushed with healthy exertion. He chatted about his day, his work, his perfect life, his words a constant reminder of my own pathetic existence.

We moved from machine to machine, each one a fresh ****, a new opportunity for me to showcase my physical ineptitude. I fumbled with the elliptical, my limbs moving in a spastic, uncoordinated dance. I struggled with the leg press, my legs trembling like newborn fawns. I nearly toppled off the stationary bike, my balance as precarious as my self-esteem. With each failed attempt, Richard's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with a subtle satisfaction that he couldn't quite conceal. He was reveling in my failure, feeding off my humiliation.

By the time we reached the rock climbing wall, I was a broken man, physically and emotionally drained. Richard, with his effortless grace and sculpted physique, scaled the wall like a seasoned pro, his movements fluid and confident. He reached the top with a triumphant grin, his eyes searching mine with a mixture of amusement and pity. The sight of him, perched atop that wall like a conquering hero, sent a fresh wave of hatred surging through me.

"Your turn!" he called down, his voice echoing through the gym, a clarion call to my public execution.

I stared up at the wall, its colorful handholds mocking my inability. My body trembled with exhaustion and loathing. "No," I muttered, the word barely audible above the din of the gym. "I can't."

Richard's smile faltered, replaced by a look of concern that felt as fake as his concern. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice dripping with feigned sympathy.

"Nothing," I mumbled, turning away from the wall, from him, from the judging eyes of the other gym-goers. "I just… I don't feel well."