work

She enters the gym. On a good day. A good time. Full of energy.

She climbs up onto the stairs. The machine that acts as if she was climbing a ton of steps. As if she's walking step by step, floor to floor, of a forty-story building. Climbing for fifteen minutes. Nonstop.

She can feel her muscles work with each step. Feel them ache.

It's been a while since she clocked in her visit. A visit to improve her health. Regularly.

Lately, she's been walking. Up steep streets. Down the other side. Working those muscles. Daily.

She climbs off the stair machine. Walks over, just a few feet, to the treadmill. To walk. To run. On a leveled surface. On an incline.

She's tired. But determined.

She thinks about aging. That if she doesn't do this now, it will only get harder. Later. When she's older.

For another fifteen minutes she works. Works her muscles. Her heart. Her mind.

Standing tall. Erect. Feet still moving. She waits as the machine slows. Slows down. Until it stops. Then she walks with a just do it attitude to the last of her workouts for the afternoon.

She steps up onto the crossramp. One foot on each peddle. She manuevers her feet back and forth. Back and forth. Sometimes on a leveled surface. Sometimes slightly raised. Going up. Then down. In quick movements. Quick motions.

Fifteen minutes more. Of exercise. She works herself.

Done.

She walks out the door. Of the gym.

To head home.
To shower.
To relax.

To work on something else.