This post was originally published on The Lipstick Controversy.
Fat shorts from the Nike outlet: check.
Thanksgiving 5K walk t-shirt: check.
Inspirational rap playlist: check.
Racing through my mental checklist, I Tokyo-drift my Honda Civic into the Vons parking lot, park abruptly and speedwalk into my personal heaven that is the Women’s Gym.
I triumphantly greet the receptionist and sales woman who roped me into a membership (you saved me, Linda), breeze past women air punching their problems in Body Attack, and others using their newborns as weights (really, it’s a thing!). I enter the locker room full of half-dressed elderlies who confidently don’t care about anything. I can’t wait to be that happy to hang out in my underpants.
Emerging from the locker room, I look around at my fellow women, baggy t-shirts and stretch pants abounding, and I know that these are my people. We’re in an oasis void of seniors who have ‘committed their retirement to triathlons’ and meatheads who’s body grease is either gallons of sweat, or literally, grease. I spent years working as a pool manager at an unprogressive Family Fitness center, wasting a majority of the summer getting sun chaffed and teaching toddlers how to float. I miss nothing about the tea tree air cloud of the sauna hallway, nothing about the weight room that had more mirrors than a fun house.
The women’s gym is a haven where patrons come to trim the for-sale-sign arm flab into a tight Rolodex, thus continuing the collective goal of all women to animorph into Michelle Obama. We wear what we want. Heck, I saw a woman wearing jeans today. Jeans! Let’s face it; black stretchy workout pants are makeup for your thigh sacks. And you know what the Women’s Gym says? Let it all hang out.
Getting home after a workday is synonymous with being blacked out; if work is alcohol, finally getting home is the sixth Irish Car Bomb. As long as the Women’s Gym sits strategically in the Von’s strip mall on my route home from work, I’ll still fit in my freshman year of college pants.
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