Monday, March 3, 2008

Open Letter to the Bodybuilder Who Helped Me in the Gym During My Lunch Break Last Thursday:

At times it can be intimidating for me, a woman, to enter “the cage,” the portion of the gym that is dedicated to free weights. The air is so thick with testosterone, you could cut it with a knife, bottle it, suck some out with a syringe, and inject it into Roger Clemens without him knowing what you were doing. This is why I wear headphones, the international gym-symbol for “don’t talk to me.”

However, I thank you for stopping me after my first rep of squats while using a barbell to assist me in the proper height adjustment of the thingies that hold the barbell when I am no longer using it (even though I was wearing headphones and avoiding eye contact).

True, I was wearing weight-lifting gloves, an item I bought when I had a personal trainer and was obviously spending way too much money (for the amount I spent, I could have had lipo), but as you can probably tell from my physique, I am not a bodybuilder, and I don’t care to discuss the intricacies of lifting – or where I work or have to go back to work, which you ask me after I tell you, in an attempt to cut our exchange short, “thank you, but I have to get back to work soon, so I’m just going to do my thing.”

I try and keep an open mind and assume the best intentions of others, but your awkward attempts to flirt land you smack-dab in the center of that weight-lifting meathead stereotype. Please do not leer at me as I work out. For one, if you make me too uncomfortable I may stop coming and then you can’t look at me at all. At least be discreet. Secondly, I’m not above ratting you out to club management. Shit, I would have done so had you actually followed me into the women’s locker room like I half expected you to after you followed me around the gym for 20 minutes. That’s right, I’ll tell Dino Broccoli, the strangest name I’ve ever encountered, but the very real name of our club manager. I can only hope he would go all dinosaur-that’s-eaten-too-much-broccoli-and-has-gas-so-bad-he’s-in-pain on your ass.

An honest attempt at help is appreciated. Otherwise, follow the headphone cue, and let me be. That’s the last time I’ll wear lip-gloss to the gym. From now on I’ll blame you for my chapped lips.

Regards,

The Girl in the Ramones Shirt Wearing the Headphones

1 comment:

Megan said...

I'll be naming my first born Dino Broccoli