We have an exercise room in our house.
Let me clarify. We have a room roughly the size of two small closets that's full of dusty equipment.
The walls are plastered with exercise posters and even an exercise calendar circa 2003. Paper clipped to the calendar are pictures of my wife and I wearing swimsuits in some sort of awkward "before" pose. From the looks of us, I'd guess sometime "before" 2002, the "after" pictures still inexplicably missing.
In the great expanse of our mini-gym (think of a guy standing in a phone booth trying to swat a bee with a dumbbell), there's a ten-year-old exercise bike. The odometer reads 67 miles. Next to that is an elliptical machine. I'd need an actual NASA engineer to decipher its odometer reading.
There are dumbbells and a weight bench. On the wall hang two mirrors to watch a dumbbell attempt once a year to use the weight bench.
On top, under, and around the bench is a staggering amount of infomercial profit margins. Two styles of push-up rigs, one set with those fancy rotating handles and one set that sits stationary only until you attempt to use them. If you look closely you can still see the remains of a bloodstain in the carpet from the impact of my nose on one of the "stationary" handles immediately following a surprise capsizing maneuver during my initial push-up attempt.
We also have a bar that fits on the top of our doorway so we can do pull-ups. You remember pull-ups? In ninth grade you could do about three, yet 20 years later you believe the infomercial guy who says that you can now do 50 in 30 seconds.