**This article was never published, as it was deemed not appropriate for The Bluffton Sun. But, I still think it's funny. So, I'll share it here. Enjoy!
Warm water cascades down my back. I inhale the wonderful scent of rosemary mint, as the stress of the day begins to rinse away with the fragrant bubbles. Ignorant to the dangers lurking outside, I reach for the conditioner. Suddenly the plastic curtain is yanked open. My attacker stares at me and says, “ I forgot my face wash in there. I’m just grabbing it.”
I am not at the Bates Motel. I am in the women's locker room at the gym, where sticking your arm in the tiny shower of a shocked and naked stranger is apparently socially acceptable.
I began going to the gym when my kids were little, not because I liked to work out, but because they offered childcare. We had moved to Walnut Creek, California, and my husband traveled constantly for his job. By the time he returned home, he was greeted by a whimpering pile of me, covered with Cheeze-Its and laundry. The gym afforded me time for myself, a place to get my postpartum body back into a shape (other than a circle), and a room where I foolishly thought I could shower in peace.
When I joined the Bay Club Gym, they Vanna Whited a litany of locker room condiments, gave me a tour of machines I would never use, and proudly showed off the cucumber infused water dispenser that was always empty. This too could all be mine for the low price of eleventy-five thousand dollars a month.
What they didn’t warn me about was the people I would encounter there. Now, I’m not talking about the sweaty people who don’t wipe down their machines. Or the women full of make-up that bounce around talking loudly, hoping to garner the attention of their future Mr. Universe. Every gym has those, and they are not that interesting. And usually I am so focused on not dying that I barely see anything going on around me at the gym (or anywhere in life, really).
However, some things cannot be missed by even the most clueless of athletic wannabes. Take for example the man who interrupted me while I was running on the treadmill to say, “Hello. I am Cobra,” like I was in some weird B-rated movie. And, because I am me and not living in the Hallmark Channel, I responded with, “Of course you are. I am mongoose.” Which, if he had more brain cells than biceps, he would have understood the sign to let me carry on having no idea he existed. But, sigh, he did not.
But let’s talk about the real weirdness - The Women’s Locker Room.
There are three types of women you see in the locker room: the “hide in the bathroom stall and get ready”, the “change quickly and go about your business” type, and the “there is a possibility that I may be getting an Only Fans account, and therefore I need to practice my nudity for your entertainment, so you’re welcome.”
Perhaps if I looked like a Victoria’s Secret model I would fall into the latter category. People would be like, “Tracy, it’s 37 degrees outside. Why are you wearing a bikini and high heels at Kroger?” My answer would be “It may be cold outside but I’m hot” and then I’d go about my grocery shopping for the dill pickle flavored Goldfish my daughter requested for her lunch.
What I witnessed in that locker room left scars that only a lobotomy could erase from my hippocampus. People doing things - while completely nude - that are illegal in most states except for California, apparently.
For instance, it was not unusual to be subjected to a naked downward facing dog or two. Turn too quickly lacing up a Hoka, and you could end up with a face full of DEAR GOD PUT THAT AWAY. Same for naked calisthenics performed right next to the lockers. I mean, having to watch nude sit-ups is Guantanamo Bay level torture. Please go warm up in the room with the mats and public indecency laws. Can’t you see I am trying to find my other sock? I do not need to trip over you doing naked burpees.
It’s awkward enough to try to wrangle yourself out of a sweaty spandex straight jacket/sports bra. There is zero need for small talk with the woman drying off every inch of her body with a Q-tip. I mean, they include towels in your membership, lady. You can’t miss them. See where Cobra is hitting on the girl working out in high heels? Yes, there, next to the empty water jug with the lime that looks like it just made it home from Spring Break in Tijuana.
One time, a woman meticulously styled her, um, nether regions - right there for God and everyone in the 5:15 Boot Camp class to witness. I kid you not, she topped off the multi-step process with some hairspray and a few spritzes of perfume. And because I’m super discreet (lies), she caught me gawking at her.
When I feel uncomfortable, the filter in my mind that should stop me from saying embarrassing things, gets all “Yeah girl, you SHOULD TOTALLY say that.” And then I do, making bad situations even more awkward. This time was no exception as I horrifyingly heard myself blurt out an offer of a sparkly barrette to help her dress it up “all extra McFancy”. The woman giving herself a naked pedicure glared at me like I’m the creepy weirdo.
And, in an unrelated story, I am no longer allowed to work out at the Renaissance Bay Club Gym in California.
Tagline:
Tracy Winslow is the owner of the PREMIER yarn store in the Low Country: Low Country Shrimp and Knits. She teaches many classes to bring your knitting skills to the next level. But she insists you are dressed during these classes, because you never know what she will say about naked knitting and doesn’t want to be banned from her own store. Check out the classes, events, fabulous yarn, and more at shrimpandknits.com.