Paying for It

By the second week of November, the neon blue Christmas tree was lit and decorated for the upcoming holidays. Maybe it was blue to include the Jews, or maybe it was blue just because the color was rad, or maybe it was blue to remind the Jews that they weren't allowed to have Christmas trees. The soft white lights coming from the tree gave a little extra glint to the paper American flags that were taped securely to the desk and the walls. It was going to be a real American Christmas, just the way Bill O'Reilly had intended it to be.

Behind the desk and the iconic tree, images of cops and gang violence were spray painted onto the walls graffiti style. It was to remind us that life on the streets is tough, bitch.

Every time I walk through the door, I am forced to stare at images and newspaper clippings reminding me to "REMEMBER" 9/11. All of the clippings are slightly racist in nature, but this is expected from a place that puts up their Christmas tree two weeks before Thanksgiving.

To be allowed to enter this fine establishment, I pay $27 a month. I go to this place, wear little shorts and old t-shirts, and run for miles on a treadmill that makes loud clicking sounds every time my right foot hits the belt. I am sure that one day it is going to start on fire, but I am slightly obsessed with weight loss and therefore take my chances every day. I think to myself, "Well, I may be burnt alive but at least I'll be thin and have great muscle definition!"

Located on a strip of Lincoln Avenue that is better known for its carpet and tile stores than its work out facilities, my gym is hidden between a Kabala Center and a mystery store that probably sells drugs. And at only $27 a month, I get what I pay for.

There is no towel service. No high tech machines. At least six of the treadmills are always broken. The indoor track that the gym brags about slopes upward and then downward at awkward intervals. The gym advertises their many classes by tacking up a sheet of paper to the water fountain and bathroom stalls, much like a high school student would do when running for treasurer of Student Council.

I have never taken a spinning class, yoga class, or even women on weights because I am really intimidated by the instructor. She is some Eastern European women with bright blonde hair and large boobs. She has a weird face and a belly that she can get away with because of her chest size. This angers me about her. I hated her the moment I saw her. I vowed never to accept an offer for free personal training. As much as I hate her, I am kind of obsessed with her, in a way. I constantly wonder if she is considered attractive by conventional standards and if her accent is a turn on to men. Every time she is near me, I pause my headphones so I can get a better grasp of her accent. She's a whisperer, so I can never tell. One day, I hope to challenge her to a race and finish the competition off with a battle of wits.

Unlike most gyms, though, my gym doesn't usually make me feel overly bad about the way I look. Actually, it's quite the opposite. I often walk in and realize that I may be the most attractive girl who has passed under the American flag guarded entrance all day. Last night, while working on my legs, I noticed a boy doing sit ups feverishly. He was actually attractive. I wondered where he came from and why he wasn't at Crunch or Bally's where all the beautiful people work out. What kind of place did he think this was? I wanted to stand over him and yell, "Hey! What do you think you're doing? You take those abs and those pretty eyes elsewhere, because I want to become the most attractive person at this gym and you're ruining it!"

The attractive boy was making me self conscious and I wondered if the pit stains on my beer t-shirt would make me look hard core or just dirty. I stared at him a little longer, squeezed my pony tail and let the sweat drip to the floor, and walked away, leaving the little puddle of sweat just for him.

There was a time awhile back where I enjoyed the elliptical. I would run, but maybe only twice a week. The elliptical felt like skiing on air, which I liked to pretend I was really doing. Also, it is possible to read a book or a magazine while exercising on the elliptical. On a treadmill, things just get messy. It was because I was doing the elliptical that I met Angel. It was because of Angel that I will never do the elliptical again. After working hard on the elliptical and feeling good about myself, I walked over to do some weights. It was there that I was approached. No one has ever approached me at the gym before. He started talking to me and I couldn't hear him because of my headphones. I removed one headphone from my ear as if to say, "I'm listening, but only briefly because I'm still half listening to my workout music".

"I've been watching you on the elliptical," Angel says. He's been watching me? For how long? This wasn't the first time I'd seen him at the gym. He was hard to miss. Angel has thick, long dreads that go all the way down his back. Sometimes, he likes to make a show about pulling them back and securing them with a brightly colored scrunchy.

He spoke with the same accent that the large-chested personal trainer spoke with, an accent that I have come to call "generic foreign accent". Hey, my gym is clearly no place to be politically correct.

The man in not-hot dreads continued to speak with me, looking me up and down. "You work pretty hard on the elliptical, but the elliptical isn't for people who need to lose weight. It's for people who just want to stay fit."

Was he calling me fat? He grabbed my hand and said, "Hey, I'm Angel." So now he was "Angel", the man who called me fat.

"Your legs…" I looked down at my legs. People always complimented my legs. They are lean and tough. "…They look pretty good." Phew. So according to Angel, my legs looked good. "But your middle…" Oh God. Please don't. I have always been very sensitive about my belly that won't seem to disappear, try as I might. Angel went on, "You could afford to lose a few pounds in your middle."

He had called me fat. In my mind, Angel had basically just told me that I was about the most unattractive girl he had ever seen and it was no wonder I couldn't hold onto any boy, because no one wants to date the fat girl. My self-esteem is sensitive. And low. My brain turned his comments into as horrible as I could make them.

Angel went on to give me some free "advice" on products I should purchase from the GNC. For the next few weeks at the gym, I adamantly avoided Angel every time I saw him. He tried to say hello and make conversation, but I would have none of it. Now when I see Angel, I glare it him from my treadmill and hope that he breaks his ankle so that he won't be able to work out anymore and get really fat. Since the berating by Angel, I have never once even thought about going back on the elliptical. It's been the treadmill, six days a week.

I continue to go to this gym and pay money to be sweated on, and called fat, and be a part of someone's political agenda that I never wanted anything to do with. I do this because, well, it's cheap, and so close to my apartment. It does have heavy things I can lift repeatedly to tone up my arms and treadmills that tell me how many calories I have burned before I may or may not start on fire. So I hope that if I just keep my headphones on and keep trekking along on the wobbly treadmills, one day I will only be so lucky as to have Angel come up to me and tell me that I'm beautiful.