When
I got to the gym I realized I’d left my headphones at home. I was disappointed,
but not enough to turn around and ride the train for 15 minutes.
Moments into my workout I was miserable. Music was the only thing that got me
through the repetitive act of picking up metal and putting it down, and picking
it up and putting it down.
The
overhead speakers blared some whiny song. "And from the ballroom floor we
are in celebration, one good stretch before our hibernation. Our dreams
assured, and we all will sleep well... sleep well."
I
hated it. Gym music usually sounded like it had been picked out by an
emotionally unstable thirteen-year-old girl, or a strong gay man who’d taken
too much ecstasy.
I
was waiting for a treadmill to open when I felt a tap on my shoulder. One look
at the lady standing behind me was all it took for me to realize that I was
entering into a conversation that I wanted no part of. Her hair was short, and
only grew in patches on her scalp, and her clothes would have been refused if
donated to a thrift store.
“My
husband won’t get a vasectomy.”
She
looked at me, awaiting a response.
“He
doesn’t want one, but I think he should get one.”
She
once again awaited a response, looking at me like I’d just heard the most
exciting news of the year.
By
this time I’d had it. Without saying a word to her I walked out. I couldn’t
handle it. Not today.
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