In the years since 2021, I’ve become, for better or worse, something of a gym rat. Five, six, seven days a week, I spend at least an hour in the gym, doing some combination of weight training, cardio (on the elliptical), doing physical-therapy-like exercises on mats, sitting in the sauna or steam room (depending on which gym), or showering. I belong to Crunch (having let my Equinox, and university gym, memberships lapse), and there are two that I frequent above all else: the one not too far from my home, which I tend to visit on weekends, and the one by my office, which I tend to visit between 5:45 and 8 am weekdays.
At the one by my office, I’m pretty familiar with the population. There are the two Black guys in their late 20s who work in finance and who played football together in college. The white guy, my age, with the long red shorts, the white wife-beater, and the enviable biceps. The Black firefighter in his 40s. The annoying Indian guy who sits listening to his earbuds on a bench in the locker room taking up space.
And the women: the white woman, my age, with a warm smile, who prefers a different model of elliptical to mine. The sweet-looking, very serious, petite caramel-skinned brunette in her 30s with matching Lululemon outfits. The Latina lesbians with their sweet, cute, PDA morning after morning, supporting one another as they push themselves to lift more.
And then, two tiny women, each of whom, you’d think, is completely my type. I’ve never spoken with either. (I’m not, generally, one who speaks with others at the gym.) These two tiny women reveal something interesting (?) about desire, about my desire. Each is, objectively, hot. They’re both 25 or 27 – no older. Incredibly fit. Toned. The blonde has a visible six-pack, as she always wears crop tops or sports bras and low-waisted flaring workout pants. Her abs are – well, they’re not my type, but they’re incredibly impressive.
And the brunette – I’ve never seen her abs. She tends to wear the cutest little bodysuits/rompers.
Years ago, I went on a meditation retreat, a seven-day silent retreat. I’m sure I’ve written about it here somewhere, but I had an illuminating experience: over the course of the seven, silent days, I told myself elaborate stories about all the others on the retreat – people about whom I knew very little – their wardrobes, their meditation style, how they eat, etc. But not even what their voices sounded like, for the most part (other than those who asked questions during the daily dharma talks), let alone, what their personalities were. My lack of knowledge, though, didn’t prevent me from telling myself really elaborate stories: this one is sweet and kind; that one, mean and sociopathic. Etc. Etc. Etc.
Well.
The blonde? She’s very serious. She’s on a physical fitness journey that is joyless and mission-driven, and has an end point – maybe a marathon. Maybe a lifting competition. I have the sense that she’s not interested in other people – that we just stand between her and her task. And the brunette? Well, she’s sweet, kind, nice. She’s cute. Just a little sad. And I can’t peel my eyes away from her. Not in a leering, unpleasant way; just that – well, I find her compelling. And, the other day, when I saw her talking with the finance bro who always wears weirdly skin-tight tank tops that look, to my mind, just a little weird on him, I felt a surge of envy/jealousy/rage/sadness. She’s into him? Of course: I’ve never spoken with her. We smile, warmly, when we cross paths, but no more.
My comment here is more on the story than on anything else: I’ve convinced myself the brunette is, or should be, mine, at least type-wise. And that the blonde is, or should be, not mine, at least type-wise. Even though, physically, they’re both mine.
Anyway: my practice, as I’ve said, really is not to speak to folks at the gym. I’m deeply respectful of that as a place where people don’t want to be approached. So I just watch, and feel sad.