Here is the whole story.So yesterday, I'm on the elliptical minding my own business. I'm not running, because my ankle has been bothering me, so I'm just kind of stepping along reading a smutty magazine. Life is pretty kosher.
That's when one of the women who works at the gym comes up to me. She's really tall and spidery. The women who work at the gym are always prancing around in a pack. I call them the Gymen. They gossip and eat plain popped corn, and read all the magazines before anybody else does. I don't really care. I maintain that I go to the gym to work out and leave. I don't care what I look like. I don't even like saying 'hi' to people. The gym is the singular place where I just don't give a shit.
Anyway, I'm on that elliptical, and one of the Gymen come up to me. She looks a little nervous.
'Can I talk to you?'
I'm going to humor her, even though I don't want to.
She looks back and forth nervously, and reminds me of a squirrel or something. A squirrel holding a nut it wants to hide.
As far as I'm concerned, there is nothing she could tell me that isn't fit for telling me right there. I have no personal business at the gym. I don't know anybody. There's nothing she could tell me, I don't think, that would require privacy. If she wants my jogging technique, my shoe size, whatever. We can talk about it right there. I'm just looking at her quizzically, so she asks how much longer I have left. It's something like 20 minutes. She says, well come find me after.
'No. I'll just go now.'
At this point, I want to know what the hell is going on, and I don't want to wait the 20 minutes to find out what piece of brilliant wisdom she is going to bestow upon me that cannot be said in public.
'Ok. Come with me to the bathroom.'
THE BATHROOM? WTF. Lady. Are you going to deal me coke?
We sit on the bench in the bathroom. And I'm really staring at her quizzically because I'm honestly confused. BIzarre.
'You know that people are wierd.' She starts.
Why yes, I do. I work with the public. This I know. People are strange.
'Well. There are a couple people who probably are jealous of you. I mean. You are slim. You work out like a madman. You look awesome.'
She's kind of blabbing on like she's complimenting me, but I know at any moment she's going to get to a point, so I wait. Still totally confused.
'WELL. I know this isn't your fault. But I know that you sweat. We all sweat. And you work hard. So of course you sweat. But like I said. There are people complaining.'
I almost laugh. I'M SWEATY. People are complaining I'm sweaty. Good lord. I explain to her that I realize I sweat. I always have. I try to do my best. I bring a towel, I clean my equipment. I've asked my dermatologist what I can do. The fact of the matter is that I'm little. I'm only 5'5" and roughly somewhere around 110 pounds. I'm relatively inoffensive. We talk about this for a little. It's bizarre. She seems relieved that I'm not offended.
Basically, what she tells me is that I just have to change shirts halfway through my workout.
She seems pleased it went well.
And although I'm not offended, why do I feel like of raped right now?
There aren't too many things that I consider personal attacks. I don't even necessarily feel attacked. But should I? I mean. This is personal hygiene. But I can't control it. I wear deodorant. I smell nice.
I wish that I could meet the people who complained. I would love to run next to them on the treadmill and fling dirty sweat all over them. Or try to shake their hand after a run. Or just give them dirty looks from across the weightroom.
How should I behave the next time I go to the gym?