Gym Closure

Remember the "no hugs by the squat rack" guy from my September 11 post? Well I was at the gym this morning and saw my hockey friend again. Turns out he's a trainer there. Today, he wore a Detroit Red Wings jersey to work. And his trainee? A man in a t-shirt that celebrates the Mighty Ducks Stanley Cup win. They were laughing and squatting. Smiling and curling. It was kind of nice to see that there's someone for everyone.

We made eye contact, the trainer and I. I didn't get the sense that he remembered me, which is probably best. I bet the Stanley Cup guy's real nice.

No hugs by the squat rack

I go to a predominately gay gym. Like 99% gay. Like I walk in there, and everyone looks at me like I should know better. I mention my membership to local friends and they give me that arched-eyebrow, bent-lip look. And it's starting to get to me. Today, a guy pointed at my shirt and said, "Minnesota Wild?" I said "Uh huh." "Nailed it!" he replied. (Minnesota Wild is a hockey team with a very bad logo. It was probably on sale, and that's why my mother bought it for me last year. I have a dozen of these shirts: University of Puget Sound, some semi-pro baseball team, a shirt for Dead-Guy Ale, etc...) This guy mistook me for a fan. And I don't know if he is gay, but I certainly felt like I was being hit on. He carried on and on about the origins of the NHL, the New York Rangers, the Red Wings, his season tickets. For the life of me, I could not reciprocate at all in this conversation. Not even to be polite. Couldn't even smile. There were pauses in the conversation for me to interject something. I had nothing. Like I didn't even speak the language. Like I was in a coma. So that long three minutes between preacher curl sets, I just rubbed my biceps and kept myself from withdrawing eye contact. I probably shouldn't have been rubbing my biceps. That may have encouraged him.

Because this is a gay gym, most of the members (99% of them) look pretty slick in their gym clothes. Some go over the top, like the 60-year-old, 6'5" guy who wears a black spandex onesy. But for me to say that I'm the ugliest guy in the room is probably an understatement. I don't primp. I roll out of bed and get to the gym. Sometimes my shirt and shorts are inside out. I have bed head. I have pillow lines on my face. My shoes have grass stains. And I wear headphones. For the first hour I'm awake, I try not to say a word. I don't even say hello to Reuben, the sincere gym manager.

Now I fear that I've become some walking storm cloud. The word is out that not only am I ugly, but I'm MEAN, and maybe even a mute. K stopped going to this gym a year ago, and people still remember her. Oh, she's so nice. What a wonderful smile. Her gym clothes ALWAYS fit. Frankly, they probably remember her because she's the only lady that ever came in. Maybe I want to be a walking storm cloud. I don't want to have to give obligatory hugs to the guy who's spotting me on the squat rack. Is that asking to much from a gay gym? I should start wearing a ski mask.