As a college student, I try my best to stay active and in shape. I wake up early to go running, even in the winter. I enjoy yoga, the more complicated the better. I lift weights every night, pushing my body to the limits. As the weather turns colder every passing day, I find myself moving my workouts indoors and to the cold air of a gym.
It’s only fitting, then, that I work at a gym. Every shift I walk into, I see organized chaos. There are people at the free weights, trainers in the corners with their clients, teenage girls on the ellipticals, old women walking around the track.
And of course, there are the men. Their ages range from fifteen to eighty-something. Most of them are nice, chivalrous people that I love to talk to. It makes my day when the retirees stop to chat, or when the young dads race around the track with their kids.
But some of you seem to forget that I am a human being.
When I am taking weights off the bench, don’t offer to help me because “you’re the man” or “it’s not ladylike.” It’s my job to pick up after you. I wouldn’t work at a gym if I couldn’t lift more than my weight.
When I offer to show you how to properly bench or squat, I’m not being condescending. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself. My life is chaotic enough – I don’t need to write up an accident report because you did not accept advice from a woman half your age.
And when my shift ends and I change into my workout clothes, it’s not an invitation to flirt with me. I have a goal for the day, and you are stopping me from completing it. I want to bench press with my co-workers, not complain to my boss about sexual harassment from gym-goers.
I shouldn’t have to ask my much bigger male friends to come with me to the gym because I’m afraid of getting hit on. Exercise is supposed to be stress relieving, not anxiety-inducing. I shouldn’t have to keep a smile on my face when you ask me out for dinner and then demand to know why I said no. It’s my job to make conversation.
When I’m not in uniform, I shouldn’t have to remind you that my eyes are on my face, not my chest. Believe it or not, I am not wearing a sports bra and tights for your amusement. It’s a gym – I’m here to work out and get sweaty.
I never thought I would be the person to write a letter like this. But in light of the recent Weinstein accusations and how many women are sharing their #MeToo stories, I felt it was time to share something similar.
So is this a #MeToo story? I suppose, though not in a traditional sense. I make it sound that this happens every time I step into the gym. In reality, it doesn’t. However, it’s happened often enough for me to be angry.
I am a woman. My strength is not to be underestimated, nor is my knowledge about fitness and health. When I’m in uniform, I’m there to make your day better, to help you find that damn exercise band, or be a spotter after your friend bails. When I’m in workout clothes, I’m just another person trying to stay fit in this world. Join me on the track if you want, or talk about the latest exercise trend.
Just don’t sexualize me.
Sincerely,
Every Woman You Hit On at the Gym