Sweat and Tears

The workout room was small—not much bigger than a small conference room.  It had a shower and a bathroom stall in the makeshift locker area.  There were stretching exercise posters and emergency exit procedures hanging on the institutional beige walls.  There was one door.
 
Often two people would be in the room together, and in a male-dominated software firm, that meant I worked out many times with guys.  I get along well with males as coworkers; most men treat me as one of the guys or ignore me completely.

I enjoyed working out after work; it provided stress relief and some time for myself. One evening my time on the treadmill was interrupted by a cube mate; the guy who was my workout partner that particular evening was the company flirt.  Everyone joked that he would make a wonderful used car salesman with his ever-ready smile and smarmy comments.  He was married and told amusing stories of his Shit Tzu, who went for regular grooming treatments.  He was one of my boss’ closest friends.  He was harmless.

Then his mother died.

Or, that’s the reason he gave for blocking the door of the exercise room and suggesting activities that weren’t depicted on the posters.  He wasn’t kidding, and when he moved forward, I froze.  I asked him nicely to let me leave.  I demanded that he let me leave.  He refused. Then I started to cry.  For a few minutes he stood in front of the door convincing me that I needed to lie down and get a massage.  When I started to hyperventilate, he let me leave.

I wound up telling his boss about the incident only after he continued coming into my cube offering shoulder massages despite my protests.  I wound up transferring to a different department, different floor, and different manager because I was the problem in my boss’ eyes.  It is good to have friends in high places--it's a lesson I've never forgotten.

I’ve not been in a gym since. I still despise the thought of a massage. 

When my Valentine’s gift package arrived yesterday I knew immediately who sent it--my only Valentine, an unavailable one at that.  Inside the box was filled with my favorite things: note paper, MAC lip gloss, body lotion, bubble bath, a cute workout outfit, and a handwritten note offering me a membership to the females’ only gym near my house. I smiled.  “I really don’t want you looking at any buff guys other than me, so girls only will have to do.”  I laughed.

As if he ever had, or could have, any competition in that department.