A post in which I finally, finally, move my Big Fat Ass

It was a relatively calm day at work, in which I got things done. I completed the weekly and two monthly presentations, and caught up the last of my call-backs.

I was supposed to get my hair did tonight, but Russ called to cancel. I am a bit worried about him. He has never done that in the many years he has cut my hair. From the way he described things he has food poisoning. Having had it myself, I know that is no fucking picnic.

Since I had absolutely nothing to do when I got home (well, nothing I was going to do anyway), I had no excuse not to go up to the gym at work. I've been putting it off, because I really hate to exercise (if it doesn't involve lifting a fork, anyway). I've told myself I'll cut down and lose a bit. I've told myself I'm just naturally big boned. But the facts remain. To be this big-boned, I'd have to be a Clydesdale.

It was worse than I thought it would be. The last time I was up there, at least there was no one else there. Since then, though, everyone has started their New Year's Resolutions.

First, there was the trauma of the locker room. For some gay guys, this is a fetish area. For me, that smell of sweat and disinfectant takes me right to my Bad Place. I hear the jeers of the guys who made my high school life hell. I automatically become gawky and awkward. Mentally, my face breaks out and my hands and feet become unmanageable. My tongue knots. I once again feel the terror of being "found out" and revealed as an impostor; along with a familiar mix of titillation, lust, and guilt. Sex is shameful again. The poise and self-confidence I have managed to build as an adult peels away like an old scab, exposing the tenderness of old self-loathing beneath. This is the realm of the physical animal. Sophistication, education, and civilization mean nothing here. This is a Lord of the Flies place.

When I walked in, there were several guys, of whom I of course was the fattest. One of them is a fetally gorgeous boy they obviously hired right out of college, and who is also obviously a gym rat. The only thing I can imagine worse than disrobing in front of a bunch of jocks is disrobing in front of a bunch of jocks that I work with and have to see every day. One guy who was in there has been a co-worker for about 15 years now. Nonetheless, I shouldered the humiliation and changed clothes.

One of the things that I hate about locker rooms is that I have never mastered the protocol. There is an acceptable back-and-forth that is supposed to go on, but there are strict guidelines about it. Small talk has never been my forte, and generally the portion of my brain that is supposed to be in charge of it is (in the locker room) spending all it's time shrieking DON'T LOOK inside my head. All that interior dialogue of course keeps me quiet, which is Wrong. I'm not participating in the camaraderie that is supposed to be predominate and effortless. Since I am uncomfortable, it makes them uncomfortable. They may not know what's wrong, but they can tell that something is off. Different. Other. That other is what betrays me. I have learned to embrace that other anywhere else in my life, but not here. One of the guys did talk to me a bit, and I managed a bit of stiff talk about business stuff, which I'm sure made me sound like a total dick, but that was just all I could manage. Never do I feel more like Jane Goodall then when I am in a locker room. I was in such a hurry to get out of there that I forgot my shoes (I packed my clothes up to carry home so I wouldn't have to go back in there), which was disproportionately embarrassing when one of the guys mentioned it to me. He was just trying to be nice, but I was mortified.

I then went into the gym, where there were many people working out, and where I was again the fattest and least-fit person. Including one woman who just gave birth like two months ago. Several of the guys in the office whom I have admired were in there. It was good to know that they at least have to work for their bodies and are not just naturally beautiful.

I picked an elliptical walker that faced the TV (but was a bit apart from the others) and started a beginner slog. Then one of the jock guys jumped on the machine beside me, and began working out. Twice as fast. Of course. My humiliation was complete. I know it isn't supposed to be a competition, but I was still having gym class PTSD. I just tried to concentrate on my own pace, and finishing the program I had put in.

I was able to finish the 15 minute beginner's routine. I left feeling wobbly, but a bit triumphant. I started thinking that really, the gym is here for guys like me. Desk jockeys who would probably not join a gym, but could use some exercise. Those others would probably have joined a gym anyway if there wasn't one in the office. At least I had Shifted My Ass. I burned 200 calories. For me, that's like the Titanic losing a deck chair. But at least I had done something. It was a start. And that'll do pig. That'll do.

I got home, and actually decided to move around a bit since I figured when I sat down it was all over. I did some laundry and had a diet dinner. I watched a bit of tube and messed around on the computer a bit. Crooner continues to be unusually affectionate. Odd. I can't decide if he just feels better, if he's glad that I came back for him when I left him at the vet, if he's just bored and I'm more interesting than being in the house alone, or if it's just cold as bejeezus and he's warmer on me. It's going to get down to like 14F tonight. Brrrrr!