On Saturday, we went down to check out a family expo happening at the Orlando Convention center. It turned out to be a weird little consumer trade show aimed at central Florida families, with a wide mix of vendors.
One of the booths was all black, with the words “gladiator camp” scrawled in red across its top.
Figuring it was some sort of exercise after-school program, I nudged my oldest son. “You should check that out.”
He glanced at it. “Why?”
“Don’t you want to be a gladiator?” I asked. The two of us has been trying to trick each other into visiting embarrassing booths all morning. “Because you could be a gladiator.”
He tilted his head at me, then shrugged. “Okay. Sure.”
The people inside the booth were incredibly fit. As we approached, a guy with arms roughly as thick as my legs stepped out to greet us.
I bumped shoulders with my son. “It’s all you.”
“No,” the guy said, looking at me. “This isn’t for kids.”
My son’s eyebrows shot up. He crossed his arms and took a step back.
“It’s. . . huh?” I said.
“Don’t you want to be a gladiator?” my son asked.
“I, uh. . .”
The guy stepped closer, explaining that it was personal one-on-one strength training in a group setting so that the group could support each other in their physical challenges.
Behind him, my son gave a little wave and sauntered away to join his mom and brother. I’m not sure, but I think he was whistling.
The salesman glanced at my arms ever so briefly, then added “it’s for all levels of fitness.”