Would you like to hear a really awkward gym story? Okay.
Once upon a time a lady named Njeri (#womanofcolor, #blackgirlmagic) diligently made her way to the gym, set on re-inaugurating herself back into hot yoga. She has some anxiety. She has some thighs, too (no shame). Even though she used to regularly practice heated vinyasa at her local studio a year or so back, at the back of her mind she imagines arriving at the new studio and finding a gang of lithe and Lululemon-clad yoga warriors judging her for the type of milk she doesn’t actually drink.
She reminds herself that that is silly, that this is her gym (THESE-ARE-MY-THINGS.mp3), and that she will use all the resources she wants because they are also hers and she pays for them. And when that type of logical reasoning doesn’t work, and those yoga warriors actually show up in all their pricey spandex and ponytails looking like money, she has a litany of other arrows to slay the body anxiety and self-judgement monsters: “people are paying more attention to themselves than to you,” “worry is constructing a reality that you’re not interested in,” “get into your body, get out of your mind,” etc., etc. She says a prayer, pulls on encouraging scripture, recalls some half-digested inspirational sayings from Pinterest, and throws on the spandex.
It’s fascinating the sort of rituals she goes through to remind herself that she can confidently take up this space and be okay with herself. It takes work to get out of your mind when you are often preoccupied with how you are perceived while moving through the world and spaces where you’re the “only one.” Gym space always seem to be occupied by men (read: bros) who think you are incompetent at weights and things. This doesn’t always gel with reality and is once again one of her fear fantasies, but it really does seem this way.
Still, dedicated to her health and liberating her mind from fear, she goes. She walks in with her jiggly thighs set in her stretchy yoga-appropriate exercise pants and commits to being present and letting go of her inner chatter. This is no easy feat, but she’s been consciously building her self-kindness over the years. It sticks, even if her tree pose doesn’t yet.
Through the class, she approaches the new learning curve with grace and compassion for herself even though she felt her body wasn’t doing what it used to. That’s ok. It’s about the process. Mid-way, she even has an after-school-special-level reflection: even if you are a yoga warrior with a side crow pose that won’t quit, she realizes you probably don’t have a monopoly on body peace, anyway. So many of us are Sisyphus, rolling the impossible body perfection boulder up the hill because as tight as we may or may not get, there are still #goals to pursue that have everything to do with self-image. Anyhow, she leaves happy and decides to take on the elliptical. She conquers! 60 minutes, some numbers she decides mean success, sweaty body.
She descends victoriously, turns around, and looks at herself in the mirror. Wearing her heather-grey stretchy exercise pants (this fact bears repeating; it wasn’t a basic cotton number), she gasps to discover a very evident, very visible, and conveniently placed sweat patch between her thighs.
Oh yes. She had “sweat-peed” her pants.
She looks around. “How long during those 60 minutes?” she thinks to herself. “How long, O Lord?” She sighs and, now fully aware of the range of her leg movements, gingerly wipes down her machine (thank goodness for grabbing an extra wipey cloth. She just “could not” with taking two trips). She curses her pants and silently attempts to grasp at what “moisture-wicking” actually meant.
She casually exits, tugging down at her shirt and fighting off a bit of defeat, but thankful for a lightly populated gym at that time in the evening. She turns around the corner nearly undetected. But then. She spots the white man who had been working out earlier on a nearby elliptical. A typical somewhat-muscled bro type with spikey golden brown hair (obviously out of the box, but he wouldn’t tell you. “I’ve been in the sun,” he would say.), a barely-there black bro tank (the obnoxious ones with the gaping arm holes to show all the skin and apparent muscle we need to see), a mouth slightly gaping open, and eyes slightly narrowed with judgement. He makes sure to turn all the way around to make eye contact and follows her with his eyes as she leaves. Ugh. The body scan. She keeps her back straight and keeps walking. His lack of decency and discretion is not her shame. She is a woman. We sweat in places his kind find awkward. He will have to deal.
She decides that being ashamed will only enforce his power and uphold patriarchy. She makes it to the ladies locker room and remembers she still has to head back all the way down the hall. There are still people. She maintains her okay-ness, but decides that at that moment, she will avoid enmeshing herself in an unspoken scandal. No, not in her sanctuary.
She ties her not-so-obvious grey windbreaker around her waist. She puts on her black jacket, and sets out. She waves to the manager at the front desk and exits out the door. It’s still her gym. These are still her things. She’ll be back tomorrow.
But tomorrow, she will wear black pants.
Tags: body politics, fitness, j. njeri thande, the butter
Related Posts
Liner Notes: Missing Afropunk
Loco Parentis: How (Not) to Talk to a Pregnant Woman
Joe Manganiello Read The Fountainhead And His Takeaway Was That People Should Quit Their Jobs To Work In Quarries
Literary Ladies Cage Fight: Sidekick Edition
Transcendently Sublime Lines From Joe Manganiello’s Book About Fitness
Energy Systems and You: A Guide For Athletes
Ay ay, this hits many of my anxiety feelings about being a fat girl at the gym. (I also have such feelings about being a queer girl in the changeroom.)
Yeesh those bros. Brave work for facing them! And returning!
It sounds like you’re at a big globo gym. Sometimes smaller gyms have healthier and more supportive communities? Most crossfit or crossfit-style gyms do a free class if you ever wanted to try a different place and see how coaches and other athletes treat each other.
My local gym is amazing and full of super supportive bros and non-bros. Lots of old people at my gym who are basically all the best.
Yup. My wife had a story a few years back, of working out at our local gym and overhearing the girlfriend of one of the bro-ish regulars making snarky comments about her weight. The guy’s response was approximately, “You know what? She’s here every week pushing herself hard and getting better, which is a lot more than you can say for yourself. So shut up.”
this is why I like my YMCA. There seems to be some rule that there must always be an old man slowly using a machine in khakis and a button up. He is my reminder that we all belong there, and whatever you do, do it for you.
Urgh, ban all men, but particularly bromen with highlights.
Also “THESE-ARE-MY-THINGS.mp3” is great and I kind of want it tattooed on my forearm so I can periodically remind myself in difficult situations.
I felt this in every sweat-laden dimple of my thighs. Thank you. Keep killing it.
Jiggly thighs in black pants forever!
A hard workout give me Nipples of Steel, unrestrained by any sports bra. Men look, but that will never stop us. We’re not in the gym for them, anyway.
That seems to be the main place I sweat. I just wear black and act like it’s normal. What the hell, body?
I recently bought my first pair of non-black workout pants! Dear world: I sweat, and parts of me jiggle when I move. Behold!
I bought my first pair of patterned workout pants online. They are purple & cream but with turquoise accents. On mine the accents are behind the knee, on one ankle, and my whole crotch. It's eye-catching in a primate-in-heat way but otherwise they're pretty great pants.
Always, always, always with the black pants. Although I did buy this deeply insane pair of fluorescent orange Underarmour pants and they don't seem to show sweat at all. So, Underarmour, maybe?
You have hit on all of the anxieties, and the self-help mantras, an average woman in the city has to go through just to get herself out the door and into life. Thank you.
The fattest girl in my yoga class can out-yoga the shit out of my skinny arse. I learned a long time ago not to judge a person's flexibility, stamina or strength by their size. I wish more people would take on board the teachers request not to compete with others in the class, but just to see what you can do with your body in that time and space, but we're all so ingrained with how gross we are (yeah, even the skinny girls) that it's super hard to leave it at the door.
I’m an old white woman who started taking ballet classes for the first time at 52. One of the girls my class weighed well north of 250 lbs. I loved so much the fact that she didn’t give a shit. I wondered briefly if she had to fight her own inner dialog about the hippos in Fantasia every time she entered the studio, but I doubted it. She enjoyed every minute of those classes. I’m 5’7″ and weigh 125, and I both envied and admired her. Whoever and whatever you are is all on the inside, kids. Nobody’s judging you, and many people are inwardly cheering you on. Anxieties be screwed. 🙂
“His lack of decency and discretion is not her shame. She is a woman. We sweat in places his kind find awkward. He will have to deal.” Yes! That says it all.
I used to feel this, and managed to talk myself into the zone where I no longer gave any shits about anyone else in the room, and it was glorious. Then I _finally_ got to the point where I am able to "out-yoga" some of the thinner girls (except in side plank, never side plank, I hate your face side plank!), and ever since I noticed that, my mantra is "don't be a bitch about this, this is still only about you". Patriarchy: training you to be damned either way since ever.
My friends believe I do not sweat. This is not true. Because while the front of my work-out clothes look as dry and pristine after a workout as if I’d just pulled them out of the dryer, from the nape of my neck to the back of my knees there is a sweat patch that could solve California’s drought. And thanks to gravity, it accumulates in the above-mentioned embarrassing pee area. But yeah, embrace the thighs and wear black pants.
My friends believe I do not sweat. This is not true. Because while the front of my work-out clothes look as dry and pristine after a workout as if I'd just pulled them out of the dryer, from the nape of my neck to the back of my knees there is a sweat patch that could solve California's drought. And thanks to gravity, it accumulates in the above-mentioned embarrassing pee area. But yeah, embrace the thighs and wear black pants.