I had hoped for bigger biceps from my summer exercise regimen, but I had not anticipated enlightenment. I spent my summer at the tip of Cape Cod, in Provincetown, Mass. The gym I signed up for there is primarily known (as I later discovered) as the men's gym in town. Women members are allowed, but are significantly outnumbered. But I wasn't just a female in a gym full of males -- I was a straight female in a gym full of gay males. While I'm not claiming to know the exact sexual orientation of everyone at the gym, it is fair to say that the gym's membership reflected the fact that Provincetown is a mecca for gays and lesbians. Which means getting my exercise was a thought-provoking experience.
Going into the summer, I knew that I would not be in the norm of Provincetown's sexual makeup. But I hadn't thought about the various aspects of my life in which this would manifest itself. At the gym, I stuck out like a sore thumb, like a pair of Xs in a gym full of XYs. At least, that was how it felt to me. Who knows if I was even spotted among all those big muscles?
As June turned into July, I finally admitted to myself that entering the gym each day was intimidating. Was it my imagination, or were the men on the benches staring at my reflection in the mirror as I lifted weights? Was my spinning teacher avoiding touching me, even as he moved around the room adjusting the hips of the other students (all men)? Was it weird that my loose cut running singlets revealed the top of my sports bra and a little cleavage? Was my presence making the other members uncomfortable?
Along with notices of summer rentals, the wall facing the elliptical machines was plastered with posters for drag shows and leather parties. The magazine rack offered copies of Out, Maxim and GQ, and an occasional lonely copy of Cosmo. My personal reading material became an issue. In the middle of my workout one day, it dawned on me: maybe Richard Ford's book "Women With Men" wasn't the most appropriate choice. On the cover of the book is a photograph of a man and woman kissing. I continued to bring the book with me, but I made sure that when I set it on the floor as I lifted weights, I always placed it cover down.
A week later, the combination of books I set on the bike's reading stand stopped me short: alongside Ford's "Women With Men," I had placed a book of essays by Louise Rafkin called "Queer and Pleasant Danger." I had finally reached a literary compromise with my surroundings.
Books weren't the only things I had to think twice about. I showed up one day wearing a shirt commemorating the AIDS Names Quilt's visit to my hometown. For me, the T-shirt represented the afternoon I had volunteered at the quilt's display. But I could not even fathom what that shirt, and the Names Quilt in general, would mean to my fellow gym-mates. AIDS has touched a disproportionate number of people in Provincetown, given the size of the town's population. Surely, most of Provincetown's residents and visitors know someone affected by the disease. Would my T-shirt be an uncomfortable reminder of mortality? Did I have the right to wear it even if I was personally unaffected by AIDS? I never made up my mind about these questions, but I left the shirt on the bottom of my drawer.
Even as it made me consider some aspects of the gym-going experience that had previously not been an issue, this gym had some obvious advantages. An atmosphere of competition thrives in most gyms; but at the gym in Provincetown, I never felt I was competing. I knew I wasn't being compared to the other females in the gym, because there rarely were other females. And it was quite clear that I was not competing with the males who surrounded me. I'm sure a competitive atmosphere existed among the male patrons of the gym -- but I went about my business with a feeling of freedom.
Only once was my physical capability called into question. I had just loaded the leg press with weights when the guy at the next machine said to me, "You know you have 45 pounds on there, right?" He was cute and smiley and I'm sure he was only looking out for my welfare, but nonetheless, I was insulted. "Yep, I know," I replied confidently, and then sat down in the machine and forced myself to do extra sets, hoping that he was watching. My legs were mighty sore the day after.
By the end of the summer, I had established myself as a regular. The people at the front counter knew me, the spinning teacher knew me, and while I can't say I was hanging out every night with the gym guys, I did become accustomed to seeing the same faces sweating away on the treadmill.
It was fun being the only person in the women's locker room, the only girl in the spinning class, the only girl by the weight rack. Yes, I felt out of place sometimes. Yes, I sometimes felt uncomfortable. Yes, even now I wonder if this column will offend anyone, if it would be safer to, like the T-shirt I kept at the bottom of the drawer, keep my thoughts to myself on this subject.
But I do know that it's not often you go into the gym wanting to workout and come out of the gym wanting to think. Everyone should know what it feels like to be an "other," to be in an environment where he/she is the exception, not the norm. So what if I didn't fit in? I took away more from the gym in Provincetown than just sweat and muscles.
