Peeping Thelma

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned once or twice or twelve times my abhorrence of working out. Aside from the sweaty and stinky parts of the work-out itself there are the other parts that aren't altogether enjoyable.

Like the locker room.

Now, I go to a pretty nice gym. That wasn't always the case. My friend, KB, and I have had our share or questionable gym memberships. Whoever was tauting a Buy 1, Get 1 or other deal of the century. But those gyms almost always go out of business and generally have stinkier than usual locker rooms.

But I'm a grown-ass woman now and can afford a slightly higher caliber of health club (not the top tier like my dad goes to, but then he's just a little more devoted to his workouts than I am). So, I go to the second nicest gym in town and it suits me pretty well.

It helps that it's connected to a hospital and I have to worry less about looking hot for the muscle heads and worry more about running over a geriatric on the indoor track.

Sorry, I digress...

Anyway, the locker rooms are pretty swell, in my opinion. And sure it still has the lingering aroma of chlorine, dirty laundry and Fritos - but it's a locker room - so I cut it some slack.

I remember going through middle school gym class and the anxiety of all the girls about changing clothes in front of one another. Everyone stood approximately 2 inches from their locker and changed from their Jordache jeans to their Nike sweats in 3.4 seconds. By the time I'd gotten to high school, I'd already dealt with basketball, softball and track and was used to the locker room scene.

As we get older, we come to realize that they are just bodies. And when you're standing around the locker room changing, no one is looking at you. Sure, occasionally you run into the woman who walks from the shower stall to her locker in nothing but a pair of flip-flops, but they are few and far between. And that is how you deal with dropping trow in front of a bunch of strangers.

That theory was tested today.

Sundays are a hard day to determine when to hit the gym. Normally, I try to bypass kiddie swim lessons and senior aerobics, because the locker room turns into either a scene from Kids Who Eat Too Much Sugar or Old Ladies Who Don't Know How Loud They Talk Without Their Hearing Aids In. I made a bad call today and hit a pretty busy post-aquatics class time. The older ladies where just toweling off, as I tried to find a locker and a wee bit of bench space to change and hit the treadmill.

I had successfully gotten my yoga pants on and was swapping my regular bra for my sports bar when two ladies descended on my locker culdesac. They were gabbing, but I didn't take much notice until I heard in a much louder voice - "Excuse me, is that a fish swimming up your back?"

Oh crap, some poor woman's blood sugar must have dropped and she was now speaking gibberish. I am a self-purported "bad in a crisis" girl, although in reality - people always look to me for direction when things are hairy. I looked over my shoulder, as I was still in-between boob coverage. And this lady in a bathing suit was looking right at me.

"The tattoo, on your back, is that a fish swimming?"

Note: Yes, I have tattoos on my back. No, none of them are a fish swimming.

"Oh, no," I responded, "It's a Celtic symbol." I hurried along my wiggling into the ol' sports bra.

Then her friend piped in, "What did you say? What kind of symbol?"

Me, still half-naked, "Celtic. An Irish symbol." My elbow gets caught up in the arm hole of the bra and begins to look like I'm playing with a Stretch Armstrong.

"Oh, yes, not a fish at all. So, what's it mean?"

Me, one twin hanging out, "Uh, inner soul to outer life."

"Oh, that's lovely. I have a tattoo too. Betcha can't see it."

Oh, please. Oh, please - do not make me look.

"It's my eyebrows! You couldn't even tell, could you?!"

And then the two chatted on about tattoo eyebrows and eyeliner and I managed to finish dressing myself.

Aside from my lack of grace-under-pressure, I have to say I was most disturbed by the idea that I was not invisible in the locker room. The idea that no one was looking at whether or not my underwear matched my bra, or if my hair was a mess or if I, in fact, had fish swimming up my back was a fallacy.

The anonymity of the locker room is gone. And now, in addition to making sure I look un-winded on the treadmill when I'm next to Joe Cutie, I also have to make sure I'm appropriately covered up before Peeping Thelma gets a gander at any of my other tattoos.

The truth is: None of us is alone. At least not in the locker room.