A small smile crept across his face as the noise from a train passing by broke his long stare, waking him up to a darker than usual subway full of old newspapers and a cold gust of air coming from the stair case that led outside. He rubbed his hands together to get warm, while thinking about all the different ways he was going to treat his bag better from here on out. He opened his mouth wide while rubbing his cheeks with his hands to try to snap out of his trance and wake before the day passed him by. A weightlifter must learn how focus on both weightlifting and everyday life, sometimes at the same time. When these two completely different worlds meet they can cause doubt, confusion, and the worst of all....excuses. Learning how to be a weightlifter is the hardest part in learning how to be a weightlifter. The bag made a small noise from something inside moving out of place. He patted the bag with a broken smile and whispered as if he was talking to a puppy, "You know what I'm saying, right boy?". The bag looked back with a glow of appreciation and relief. The bag was just as much a weightlifter as the man, and the man knew he was just as much part of that bag as the bag itself. The man felt lighter from their talk. A sigh of understanding and respect. He was at first blind sided and taken back from how old the bag truly was, but was now proud of himself and the bag for keeping an honest relationship, and continually staying the best of friends.
The man pulled his hands away to straighten out his clothes in anticipation for his train the he could hear down the tunnel moving his way. The light from the train opened the subway up with a new perspective. The newspapers were not scattered around the floor nor were they dirty. The floor was clean and the vending machines where glowing bright. There were more people than he thought there was hustling and bustling around as if an army was forming to attack the day. The man opened his wide eyes and quickly turned to his bag, hoping that his bright blue Cal bag was young and strong as he always knew it to be. The bag laid half dead as its shadow crept down the bench towards the man. The man's eyes followed the dark shadow running into his hand that was structurally there supporting his excited lean towards the bag. The man noticed his hands. He picked both of them up and turned them side to side in front of his face. They were torn, bruised and old. They were stained yellow from the cigarettes he once smoked. Old chalk lived deep under his nails, and the blood paintings that webbed across his hands from broken blood blisters made sure that he was just as broken and used as the bag sitting beside him. The man has aged with his bag. The man then realized sitting on that subway bench, that he had become his own gym bag.
Inspired By Mark Haz's Cal Rugby Bag