Gym clothes
I tend to pay attention to what I wear, especially now that I live in the 7th arrondissement of Paris and the way people treat me seems to have a strong positive correlation with the length of my skirt, the size of my heels, and whether or not I’ve bothered with makeup. But sometimes it’s really convenient to look like garbage. For example, at the gym.
My gym in Paris is ridiculous and funny for reasons I hope to write a book about someday, but let’s just say that bar a scant handful of gay bodybuilders, the men lift pathetically light weights whilst flipping through newspapers and playing card games (really) on the pull-down machines. I’m more partial to running or yoga, but I’m determined to never dislocate my shoulder again (5 VERY PAINFUL incidents later) so I grit my teeth and make an ipod playlist and join these muppets in the weight room a couple of times a week. It sucks, but it’s better than surgery, which I have been threatened with. Que faire?
From the first day, I could tell they thought I was nuts. I don’t look like one of those spandex-clad bodybuilder women, or a fitness coach, or a transvestite. I look, well, normal (I think?) but also gloriously crappy. A typical gym outfit consists of hand-me-down shorts from a friend who used to run track, hand-me-down t-shirts from my brother (usually with obscure reggae bands on them) and really ugly socks I got at a discount shop. I sometimes try to put together the crappiest shorts-and-tshirt combo possible, just for the hell of it.
Because of this attire, and because I can lift heavier weights than them despite being maybe half their size, I’m pretty sure the weightroom guys think I’m a lesbian. Not a hot lesbian - a really boring lesbian. I like this because they leave me alone: the one time I wore leggings and a pink t-shirt (all my ugly clothes were dirty or something) all people started trying to tell me what to do. Non merci!
Anyway, I’ve been eyeing non-ugly gym clothes for a while now, because as convenient as it is, I’m sort of tired of looking like a 14 year old dyke, and maybe looking not-horrible would motivate me to, I don’t know, do more lunges or run an extra mile or all those things beauty magazines promise. But isn’t it really messed up that I can’t wear something remotely feminine without being subjected to “advice” - which is either lewd, or “that’s too heavy for you to be lifting”? Strangely, this never happened in New York. Then again, in New York, there were more women than men in the weight room, and half of them were usually pregnant. Which says a lot about American women, or the American fitness-industrial complex, or both. I don’t think they even let pregnant women into gyms here. Get thee to a bakery!
