I think the Sanderson Center needs a new dress code.
I’m sure all the guys reading this are probably cursing at me, but I know I’m not alone in this.
The other day I was talking with a friend who said that she recently changed gyms because the Sanderson was too intimidating for her. In fact, she really wanted to start going to a women-only gym.
Women only? I cringed. I share her feelings of intimidation, but not because of the guys. I have a hard time enjoying my workout when I am surrounded by girls who look like something out of Fitness magazine. No, Men’s Health. No, no. Maxim.
I don’t understand how they do it. These are the iPod-donning girls with perfect hair and makeup intact, who leave looking as if they’d just had a hard day of reading. They don’t sweat, they don’t smell bad-they are not even out of breath. They completely take the “work” out of workout.
What’s worse is that when I got married, I thought it would be fun for my husband and me to go work out together. I quickly realized the error of my ways as we walked into the strength training room for the first time together. It was like a lamb being led to the slaughter, and I was the farmer. What had I done?
I know what you’re thinking: this girl has some serious self-image issues. But not really. I consider myself a confident person. I have every reason in the world to be happy. And on a normal day, I would say that I am attractive. At least my mom says so.
But I’m not talking about a normal day. I’m talking about the gym. And to me, the gym is not a social club. It is not a fashion show. It is not a meat market. It is DEFCON-1, and I go in there armed for battle. When I go to the gym, I go to wage war against the evil spirits of obesity and cellulite that rage against my abs and inner thighs. I go to cast out the demons of refined sugar and bad carbs. It’s not pretty.
Now, when my husband and I go to the gym, I have another enemy-spandex. Even my husband admits that the only safe place to look is at the floor (which was redone recently, so at least it looks nice). And when he does look up to find me, there I am smiling painfully with my baggy T-shirt, knee braces, dangerously red face and even more dangerously pale legs, guarding my elliptical machine with the arm things because the diva on the treadmill who keeps looking at me thinks she deserves it more than I do.
You probably think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not kidding. First of all, I’ve inherited from my dad the overwhelming ability to sweat. I could single-handedly replenish the Gulf after five minutes on a treadmill. I sweat like a man. I sweat so much that my husband guards his towel because I’ve already soaked mine. I’m not proud of it, to be sure. But people tell me I’m healthier because of it, so I can deal with it.
Not only that, but if you’ve ever seen me on a windy day, you should know that my hair is impossible to tame when I’m in the gym. I look like Carrot Top during one of his shows. No amount of bobby pins will suffice.
And I think that’s how it should be when someone is working out. Hence, the name. It should make you sweat. It should make you tired. It should make you ugly.
I love exercising, and the Sanderson is one of my favorite places to go, second only to Six Flags. But something’s got to give here. A woman’s got enough to worry about without throwing skinny, tanned-in-January, scantily clad live bait into the pot.
So, I’ve come up with a new policy for the Sanderson Center, which should be put into effect immediately: No shirt, No sweat, No service.