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I was posting all of my blogs on my personal page, but then I figured I should post them here, also.
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I awake to the sounds of Jimmy Eat World blasting on my alarm clock's radio. "Weird," I think, "I was just dreaming about Jimmy Eat World." I reluctantly open my eyes to look at the time. 10 AM. Ugh. I get up to reset the alarm for 10:15. Just a little longer. The kickboxing class starts at 11 but it only takes me ten minutes to get to the gym, so I settle back down into my deliciously warm blankets, close my eyes, start to drift back into...
"HEEYY
WAAAIT"
Nirvana now?! Who's been messing with my radio? I really don't want to open my eyes again but the music is loud and my bladder is screaming at me and it's a little too painful of a scream to sleep through as I normally would, so I get up.
I turn the alarm off again. Go downstairs, brush teeth, start to get dressed, check myspace, finish getting dressed, put hair in ponytail. Grudgingly make sure I have everything. Groggy or not, it's gym time.
I arrive with twenty minutes to spare 'til kickboxing starts. Gives me some time to people watch. I swipe my card, walk in, pass the cardio section. The actor section. That's where all the pretty people are. 20-something men with chiseled faces and slightly shaggy hair that they grew out to get more roles. They're either trying to lose that extra few pounds to get to their ideal weights, or just to keep in shape so they continue to look great on camera, but I smell an agent behind all of them.
Some of the cardio women--the ones with nearly perfect bodies--like to wear only sports bras on top. "I worked hard to look this good, so I'm gonna show it off! Eff it!" Most of the sports bra girls have power oozing from their perfect noses. Career women, these women. They get what they want when they want it. Even their ponytails and makeup--at the gym?--are perfect.
I glance down at my own garb. Old blue tank top, fading black shorts that were clearly not meant for the gym, red socks, tattered turquoise Keds with candle wax marks. My hair looks like death and the area beneath my eyes is still coated in a layer of last night's eyeliner. But it is the gym, after all.
Pass the cardio, up the stairs to the bodybuilders. It's a different world up here. Suddenly, instead of girly-men and empowered women, I am looking at a miles-deep sea of muscles. Not beautiful 300 muscles, though; think big bouncers with Harleys. Not sexy. Scary. The minute I set foot on the second floor, a hush goes over the crowd. The noise stops. Weights drop. Something pivotal has happened. All eyes turn to see.
WOOOMANNN?
It's not just me, it's any female. The weight lifting area is man's territory. Man. Grunt grunt. The stares used to piss me off and make me uncomfortable but now I find them amusing. Stare icicles right back 'til they cower in shame. Show 'em who's boss. Atta boy.
I sit down at a bicep machine and change the weight from 100 to 20. I'm slowly coming to terms with this, but still I can't help but feel like all eyes are on me, taunting my weak biceps.
I do a few sets, watching the hulks and aspiring hulks all 'round. The really serious ones are the most fun to observe. They load as much weight as they are physically capable of lifting onto a barbell, stand up, squat down, straighten up while HEAVING the bar straight up into the air with a loud grunt--
URGNGUGHGERAAARGH
--and catch it again.
Mmm. Sweat for me, muscle men. You know I like your arms to be the width of my waist. Nothing says MAN like BULK. Grunt grunt.
I can't figure out what these men do for a living. They're not easy to figure out, not like the actors. Bodybuilders, stuntmen, bouncers, mechanics? Maybe a couple of Duane Johnson-type actor/bouncers. I don't get many white collar vibes.
I finish my reps and head over to the class area. The Pilates-ers are not quite finished so I plop down near the door to wait.
I've been sitting for several minutes when suddenly I feel an arctic chill wash over me. I see her. I felt her icy glare before my eyes even received her image. Over there on the mats, past the ab machines, stretching away, there she is. I see her head floating up from behind other bodies. A cold, pretty, blonde head. She sits up straight to glare at me. It's Bitch. She's going to try to take my spot again. She does it every time. The gym kickboxing queen. I pretend not to see her and begin to stare at the door to the class. Open. Open.
Bitch is much farther from the door than I am. I can make it. I can beat her. She starts moving this way. Nuh-uh. Not this time. The front and slightly left-of-center spot, right in front of the mirror and close enough to where Tina stands to see exactly what she's doing, is mine today. I see a taller, skinnier head bobbing next to her. Great. Her sidekick is here too, naturally. I started going to kickboxing first and I'm not about to let them try and snake my place again. Not if I can help it. I stand up and put myself in a preparatory stance, ready to make a beeline for the front "row." Ready... ready...
The first pilates-goer exits. That's my cue. I open the door and start running. Run, run, zig zag in and out of pilates mats and leaner bodies, duck, jump, crawl, roll, BAM. I'm there. It's mine. I take one step closer to the stage, recalling how Bitch got in front of the front row last time, right in my way. Man, what a bitch. I see the enemy coming in but I already have my spot. I grin triumphantly. Victory is MINE! Wait. Wait. Something I'm forgetting? The Bitches settle in uncomfortably close on my right side. Oh, no. No. My purse. I'm still holding my purse. All possessions have to be out of the way. I have to put it against the wall. Bitches are comfortably settled in uncomfortably close, and I have to move to put my purse down. Ohh no. I bite my lip, weighing my options. I have none. I stare the Bitches down for a couple of seconds to mark my territory and make a mad dash for the wall. I throw down the purse, hurl my water against the side of the stage, and am back in two seconds flat--
but no matter. Bitch 2, Bitch's partner in crime, who looks like Bitch but tall and skinny, has moved in. All it took was a couple of steps but she has done it. Not more than a yard to my right and a foot behind, she has officially invaded my kickboxing space. Bitch smirks at me and goes back to her stretching. Now I'm livid. I would move over, but a flamboyantly muscular, gay, black man has moved in on the left, also within kicking range.
I can't move. I'm holding my ground. This is a violation of workout etiquette and I'm not moving. You invade my comfort zone, I remain to invade yours. I WAS HERE FIRST.
Tina has not yet arrived so I sulk and mentally criticize Bitch as I watch her going through her stretches in the mirror. She's bleach blonde with an overcooked tan. She's short, like me, and has big thighs, like mine, but she's bigger. She obviously works out constantly but has a decidedly masculine body structure. Them thick calves and ankles ain't getting any smaller, honey, tan or not. She notices me judging her. I see her tough exterior falter for a split second but then she's back. I scoff to myself.
Tina arrives, late as usual. I spend the next hour clumsily trying to learn the new and complicated kickboxing moves she has thrown into the routine, maneuvering my way around Bitch 2 and Flamboyant Black Man (being sure to stay in front at all times), and chuckling to myself about how awkward Bitch looks as she literally bounces around front and center, trying to make every move as high-impact as possible. Gross.
The class is finally over. I hurry to my bag and race out, eager to avoid the blonde gaze.
On my way to the steps a familiar face catches my eye. A thin, wasted, skeletal, extra-crispy face on a thin, wasted, skeletal, extra-crispy body, diligently exercising, as usual. I pause for a moment to admire the new outfit this 40- or 50- something woman, a regular at my gym, has on. It's always some snazzy new matching getup. Today it is a black, leather-esque, midriff-baring halter with black leather-esque pants. Classy. Her face evokes images of surgical knives and her tan is more decayed than Bitch. Her hair is dyed and fried, fake and poorly cut. Her thighs are the size of my arms--not an ounce of fat on this one. She doesn't eat--she just works out. She may have been beautiful once. She probably married an older, wealthy man who somehow pushed her into a skinny-crazed obsession with her body that she can't get out of. Perhaps he is dead and she is using his dead money to buy herself new snazzy workout outfits as she works out and wastes away. She is--literally--ALWAYS HERE. Like a ghost. How sad.
I wonder what I would be obsessed with if I went insane right now.
I realize that I'm staring so I move on down the stairs, past the actors, through the lobby, and down to the bottom of the complex. Time to drink a protein smoothie and take a damn shower.
7:20 PM
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