So there’s this cocky little guy, long hair in a ponytail, lifting weights while he’s wearing flip-flops. And I’m thinking to myself, “Are you fucking crazy?” Every time he walks past the mirrored wall, I see him sneak an approving glance at himself. But all I notice is that despite all his efforts, his psoas muscles are too tight and they push his belly out. He should take a yoga class.
You see that a lot with these guys; they overtrain and lose flexibility. But telling a guy not to do something is a losing cause, I suspect. “See that guy doing that lat pull?” my trainer says to me. “I specifically told him not to do that. Good luck, pal, when you blow out your back.” She shakes her head.
It’s an act of extreme emotional vulnerability to walk into a gym when you’re fat. People do look at you. Fortunately, my trainer sees it, too, and mutters, “Assholes.”
My trainer is a hot lesbian Latina from Brooklyn who recently became engaged and is sporting a nice-sized marquise diamond on her left hand. She is stern but kind and tells me all the time how much stronger I’m getting. “When you came back, you were doing sets of 10 and you could barely do it. This week, you’re doing 15 to 20,” she says. “Good for you, chica!”
Today, while I’m on the treadmill, I watch the hunky firemen. (My gym is right next door to the PFD headquarters.) There are a lot of them. I think about selling guest passes to my female friends, because these guys are some nice eye candy.
When I go to the gym, I don’t worry about money (which I’m quickly running out of). I don’t think about job hunting, or why that HR person didn’t call me back. I just think about getting stronger and healthier, and for a little while, that’s enough.