An open letter…
An open letter to the guy who might have taken a picture of me at the gym,
There are so many things that went through my head when you pointed your phone at me in a not so discrete manner. Like, first I didn’t want to believe that you would exploit me like that- a girl who you don’t even know. And then I wanted to believe that you were just taking the casual mirror selfie that many (including me) do.
But then I took in my situation. Me, in my old shorts which have the tendency to ride up. Me, just finishing my five minute plank so I am breathing hard and dripping in sweat. Me, just needing to stretch out my arms so I slide into a quick heart to earth pose. I’ve done it a thousand times in that gym, so what would be the difference.
Tonight the difference was you. You lowered your phone to waist height and angled it completely away from yourself to point at me while I sat in a extremely compromising position to stretch my already sore arms. I know the signs of a snapchat, so when you immediately began typing I figured you had snapped a quick pic of a girl with her ass in the air at the gym and I felt annoyed.
Again, I didn’t want to assume you took a picture of me. But looking at the situation I can’t help but think you did.
There’s so so so many things wrong with that dude. Like one, who in their right mind takes pictures of girls asses, especially ones they don’t know. That’s super wrong.
Because my ass is mine. Nobody has the right to it. My close friends can smack it playfully, or the guy I share a bed with certainly is able to, but you have absolutely no right to my body. It is mine.
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Also, you just unleashed a world of insecurity on me. Yeah, you took a picture of my ass. But hey, the girl on the elliptical has a wayyyyyy better ass than me so why aren’t you taking pictures of her? Or maybe you didn’t see her and you got what you could.
And why am I having these awful thoughts? It’s because you thought you had the right to use me? I shouldn’t want anyone else in my shoes, nor should I feel a weird sense of pride. Because that went away when you came back when I was on my hands and knees doing another exercise. Or when you stayed through my squats.
I’m sitting there, uncomfortable in my favorite space, with awful thoughts swirling and all I want is my life partner there to hide behind.
I come to the gym for me. It’s one of my favorite stress relievers. I enjoy working myself ragged and being able to reap the results. It helps me stay confident in my body, especially when my friends poke my abs and say they hate me, or when a certain someone not so discretely checks me out(cause he’s allowed to dude, you however….).
I like seeing the sweat roll off my nose when I hit my six minute plank last week. I like going home tired and feeling sore the next day knowing I am taking good care of myself.
I do not come to the gym to be looked at. I usually go through life pretending that nobody notices or looks at me. It makes the anxiety lessen when you don’t think you are a great beauty. I would bet money that I have never been checked out, but sometimes my gym partner will tell me they have, or I have even noticed it in the past.
It makes me uncomfortable only because I like my disillusioned bubble. How bad would my anxiety be if I thought people looked at me all the time? So I pretend nobody does. It’s easier.
I hate that I am still thinking about you, dude. Still remembering snapchatting people that I was pretty sure a guy had just taken a picture of my ass. Thinking maybe I shouldn’t have worn my sister’s old lacrosse shorts that I stole because I thought they looked good on my waist and legs (which I shouldn’t be because what I wear does not mean you get to exploit me). Feeling weird whenever you came back to my corner with your friend. Thinking maybe I shouldn’t tell people because it might sound braggy, but it shouldn’t because in my mind I am nothing special to look at.
An open letter that you will probably never read. But hoping that you shape up and don’t be a fucking creep to girls at the gym. Nobody deserves that.
