Gym, 5:30 a.m.

I've been going to a no-frills, limited-mirrors gym for several months, about four or five times a week. Most of the time I go at night, but lately I've been trying to go in the mornings before I start work. Because I can't seem to move any faster that my one speed in the morning, I have to get up at 4:45 a.m. and drag my ass out of a big, warm bed full of a husband and two sleeping cats. It's really difficult to do. But on the days that I do manage to get there in the morning, I'm always glad, not just for getting it done early, but for the unspoken camaraderie of the gym that early in the day. Some people sweating it out at that hour are glad to be there and some aren't. For those of us in the middle, there's Brent. Let's call him that.

Brent is a big guy, wider than he is tall, and not one ounce of fat on him. He can't put his arms flat against his sides. He's got a smile like this:

But it's not fake like that. He has a '50s buzz cut and an easygoing demeanor. I imagine that he's been in the military in the past. He slaps hands with guys he's training and eggs them on. He always wears a pair of black Adidas sweatpants, sneakers, and a sleeveless wifebeater. He either actually works for, or he might as well work for, the gym. It's clear that everyone looks up to him, for he is a Good Guy.

Don't worry, people, I am not attracted to Brent; it's just not like that. It's just that some people, including Brent, have a good way about them that immediately lets you know they're a good person. He's a little ray of sunshine in an otherwise very dreary, these days, set of morning-time tasks. He's making me work harder and he doesn't even know it.