Here’s something I’ve never quite grasped. Dressing for the gym. We’ll just get this out of the way right now: the fact that I can even dress myself without being mistaken for a homeless man is remarkable. Though if someone were to throw a dollar into my coffee cup on Larchmont once in a while I wouldn’t complain.
I get it. I should make more of an effort. At work. On dates. Out in public. But at the freakin’ gym?? You know what I wear to the gym? Gym clothes. Gym shorts. T-shirt or tanks that I don’t care about because, guess what, enough sweating doesn’t really leave clothes in stellar quality. And I don’t care who you are, if you’re not sweating at the gym, you are seriously doing something wrong or you just went in to get one of the eight dollar protein shakes.
My buddy, Chris, told me recently I wore the worst clothes to the gym. I do. I have a pair of baggy swim trunks with fish on them that I love wearing. It’s often complemented by a shirt I got at Goodwill that has a monkey on it. It’s hideous. But I also could care less if those two items gradually fall apart or become discolored. Oh, and for the record, I’ve tried those polyester running shirts and they’re about as comfortable as asking when your sexual partner was last std checked in the middle of intercourse.
I also don’t do my hair. Lots of boys do. I don’t even have a ton of hair to do. Shut it, bitches. And all I foresee is sweating hairspray into my eyes. I’m sure there are boys out there whose motto is “Good hair above all else, including intense burning of the cornea.” I’m not one of them. You know when I do my hair? After I shower. When does that happen? After the gym.
Chris said I wouldn’t meet a man at the gym looking the way I do. Wait? People meet men at the gym? Yes, they do. I am no exception, as more than one date has arisen while wearing those fish shorts. But then you know what happens? You go on a few dates. Then it ends normally. Or it ends badly. Like maybe you accidentally electrocuted his cat or shattered a priceless sculpted heirloom that was left too close to the edge of the mantle.
Either way, you have to see that person at the gym. And then he looks at you, makes a comment to his perfectly groomed friends, and you think, Oh, god. He’s making fun of my shorts. Or my hair. Or are his friends saying, “You went on a date with him???”
So perhaps my dressing-down at the gym is my way of subconsciously avoiding ruining my safe zone. If no one thinks I’m attractive at the gym, I avoid all future conflicts.
I may once again date someone from the gym. I don’t know. Depends on what he’s wearing.
love, sweat, and hairspray,