Gyms are not my friend.
Words by Michelle Andrews.
I’ve recently learned that gyms are sneaky- money-sucking-vortexes that deploy inhumanely attractive men and other sneaky-money-sucking manoeuvres such as avoiding my attempts to leave them… ALL I WANT TO DO IS QUIT AND JETTS WONT RETURN MY CALLS. It kinda feels like I want to break up with my gym and they refuse to end things on civil terms. It’s very uncomfortable for all parties involved.
I’ve also learned how difficult it is to spell the word manoeuvre, something which took me about thirty atrocious attempts to do (the first twenty-nine attempts so poor not even spell-check could come to my rescue). That many vowels are simply not necessary. This is why people don’t like school, drop out, and begin confusing the words *his* and *he’s*.
Every time someone wrongly uses *his* instead of *he’s*, I’m pretty sure a book commits suicide.
ANYWAY THAT’S NOT THE POINT. If you are (un)lucky enough to be my friend on Facebook, you would know that I recently joined a gym, DESPITE ALREADY BEING A MEMBER AT ANOTHER GYM. You would also know that I struggle to keep my shit together around cute men with stupidly nice eyes. I hate men. I do, I do, I do, I do, I do, I DO.
Okay shut up so I don’t. I love them. I just hate their super-magical persuasive powers in convincing me to sign away my soul for a second gym membership which I totally can’t afford and don’t need. I should be saving for a car, but I’m currently too busy juggling my many gymnasium commitments. It’s a tiring act, and the most painful part about this whole fiasco is that I have been telling myself for a solid month that the next time I sign away my financial future, it would be to an all-female gym.
A gym where women wear ugly clothes and roam free with no makeup on. That, my friends, is the dream.
Why? Because working out at a gym filled with muscly, grunty, testosterone-filled men is about as intimidating as telling your snooty hairdresser you hate the $75 primary schooler bob they just gave you. It’s intimidating as shit, okay? Every time I walk into my current gym, I feel like I am entering a gentleman’s club. The moment I open the door I feel a room of eyes follow me to the lockers, then to the elliptical, then to the treadmill.
And I am NOT saying that this is just me, or that these men are checking me out. What I AM saying is that the environment of my gym is so male-dominated, that the entrance of any female is unusual and will draw the attention of the room.
I am embarrassed to admit that not once have I ventured into the weights area or used any machine other than the elliptical or the treadmill, purely for the reason that other areas are solely occupied by men. I consider such areas forbidden to anyone in possession of lady parts.
I have also never gone to my gym makeup-less. I just don’t feel confident enough to bare all in front of people who are quite clearly judging me on my appearance. I don’t want to be thinking “shit shit shit is he noticing my uneven skin tone” whilst fake-mountain-climbing, I want to listen to Survivor by Destiny’s Child and climb my fake mountain in peace.
AND I HATE MYSELF FOR EVEN THINKING THAT – BECAUSE WHY SHOULD I CARE WHAT THEY THINK? Why can’t the sassy feminist Michelle take over and empower me to embrace a carefree attitude/uneven skin tone?
I don’t have the answers yet. What I DO have is a whole heap of foundation stained sweat towels. Lovely.
Anyway, the morals of this story are the following:
- I need to stop staring into hypnotising eyes of attractive gym-membership-selling men. From this point on, their eyes shall be considered the equivalent of a solar eclipse or Tom Piotrowski’s beard – you must NOT stare directly at them.
- Decisions regarding my finances should most definitely not be made by myself.
- I should harden the eff up and use the freaking dumbbells that have been occupied by grunty testosterone-filled men for too goddamn long.
- I need to change hairdressers immediately.
Until next time, my lovelies!