Dillon Gymnasium is a smorgasbord of awkwardness. Or a collage. Or an Easter basket. Point is, Dillon provides endless and varied sources of discomfort and shame. It is impossible to pick just one.
On my way to Stephens Fitness/Torture Center, I traverse the locker room - prime awkwardness ground. This is especially true in the early morning, when older folks abound. A generational difference having to do with middle school phys. ed. protocol might account for the fact that older people are utterly carefree about naked walking, naked blow-drying, naked everything - while most young folks stay wrapped in towels. Often, on my way through, I am momentarily startled by a bare ass or bush. They crop up without warning. The place is booby-trapped!
Body parts are nothing new; I've seen them all before. But still, every time my eyes land on some pubes, my neck jerks my whole head away from the direction of the surprise nudity. It's a reflex response, and it ensures that I appear to have been looking and am now desperate to seem like I wasn't. But I wasn't looking. I just happened to glance, that's all. Stop looking at me like you think I was looking at you. Your pubes aren't that fascinating, old-lady swimmer.
When I feel trapped in an awkward situation, I get slightly hostile.
This is all just the build-up to actual gym entry. Through the turnstile and into a hot, moist sea of shame. The wall-to-wall mirrors in the cardio area create an optical funhouse of awkwardness. I understand some hardcore people feel the need to "watch their form" while exercising, but that hardly justifies the pain inflicted on us all by the mirrors. My eyes tend to lock onto a particular point while I'm running, but in Dillon all options spell doom.
Option 1: Stare straight ahead at my own shiny, reddening face and think about how ugly I look. And then think about how I might have a booger but can't check because my finger would jam up my nose, propelled by the force of my running. Oh, and everyone would see - They might even see two of me picking my nose because of the mirrors.
Option 2: Stare at the TV. But since I strongly prefer my running playlist to "Days of Our Lives" dialogue, I am stuck squinting at subtitles, or I give up reading and just watch pretty people babbling and gesturing nonsensically, conveying nothing.
Option 3: Try to stare into space, zone out, snap back to reality because I am about to lose my balance - and invariably catch somebody's eye in the mirror. My pupils lock with theirs; I wonder what it means. Is this some kind of unspoken affirmation shared between athletes? Is it true love, across a crowded gym? Is it just random awkwardness? Probably the last one.
I could go on - and on, and on some more. Sometimes I glance at the fitness-control-thing of the person next to me and realize that I should add speed or resistance - my current intensity marks me as a weakling. But then what if they notice and up the ante some more, forcing us both into a deadly cycle of one-upsmanship?
Then there's the inner struggle that occurs when I feel I might fart - what? When your insides get knocked around like this, it happens! And, though any sound will likely go unnoticed, there is the possibility it will smell. Awkward. Then there's the thrill of dodging jutting elbows and ergers on my way to get a paper towel so I can wipe-down my just-used equipment before someone climbs on the machine and her face curls into a grimace of disgust when her hands touch the sweaty residue I left.
But maybe I am making too big a deal out of all these minor humiliations. The gym is special because, here, bodies are at their most ... real. They are naked in unflattering light; they seep fluids and emit odors. But human bodies should be allowed to just be themselves someplace; and in such a place, I am forced to get over myself. The only way to enjoy the gym - to leave there feeling alive instead of embarrassed - is to throw awkwardness to the wind and feel the burn. Not the burn of shame, just the burn.
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