Before my sixteenth birthday my mom asked me, "What do you want for your birthday?" Without hesitation I said, "A gym membership."
Up until that point I either had to make do with my 110 pounds of concrete-filled plastic weights or wait until her or my stepdad got a wild hair to go to the local Nautilus center with me in tow. Turning 16 would, however, give me the freedom to drive myself to the gym six days per week... assuming my 1973 Chevy Vega would make it.
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