The weight of your stare
To the men who stare at me in the gym:
To the men who stare at me in the gym,
I can see you. I’m not sure if that’s what you want or if every glance you sneak is part of a bigger, more covert operation. If you want me to catch you, what are you hoping to get out of it? Does it give you a rush to get caught? Do you feel like you’re doing something naughty, staring at a woman’s ass, her breasts, the whole of her like she entered this establishment purely for your viewing pleasure?
This isn’t a Pussycat Theatre, a 25-cent peep show. Pick up your pennies, your rusted coins, and take your unblinking eyes to the sidewalk where they can burn holes into the cement instead of my skin.
I feel good today. Confident, finally, after a long spell of body loathing, which started in my early teens and will continue on later today. I don’t often feel great in my gym outfits. I constantly size myself up against other women and analyze myself in the mirror, repeating affirmations that won’t stick. I’m not proud of this. But I'm not always proud of my body. Is that why men, especially the younger ones, stand in front of the wall-to-wall mirrors flexing their triceps, rolling their shoulders forward just slightly to see a cut down the side of their rather fleshy arm, a failed attempt at being discreet? Is it an act of insecurity or vanity? Are you showing off or looking for validation? Is that why you look at me, at the other women? What are you searching for in our bodies?
Since I feel good, confident, I squat a PR right out the gate, then notice the three 20-something guys beside me squatting, with the same if not more effort, the same weight. My ego loves this. Who says women can’t do what men do? Granted, they’re not the buffest guys around, but I don’t care. My training has been inconsistent the last two months after a surgery and the subsequent recovery took me out for longer than anticipated.
I was excited to get back to the gym, back to the routine that for so long stabilized me, like a weight-bearing beam in a sweet little house that has decent street appeal but is a bit unkempt inside. You wouldn’t know it though unless you went inside, an invitation only extended to a selected few.
When I’m done my squats, I reset the rack and wash it. Two men, both regulars, both walking on the treadmills, eye me as I swipe paper towel and sanitizing spray. It’s fine, I think to myself, they’re on the treadmill, what else is there to do? When training for a 100km trail race last year, I clocked long hours on those treadmills in the dead of winter, watching cycles of people come and go while holding a steady pace. Neither of these guys have ever given me a creepy vibe and always keep to themselves in a head-down-do-the-work kind of way. I moved on.
While I lift in the free weight section, an older man on a seated leg machine a row back looked at me a few times. And as I walked to another machine, a younger guy I didn’t recognize stared at me with an intense fury in his eyes as he pumped his arms on the bicep curl machine. That was unsettling. Yet it didn’t change anything I did. I didn’t react when I caught another regular peering at me through his side eye as we passed in the functional area. None of these men said anything to me and it’s possible, with some of them, that we just caught each other’s glances because we were in the same area or landed in the right viewpoint. You could counter argue that I clearly looked at all of them, so what does it matter if they looked at me, too?
But their eyes were already on me when I happened to catch their stare. A middle aged man gave a certain smile in recognition of us briefly locking eyes, but then again, what was his intention? He was standing against a pillar about ten feet back from the chest press machine at which I sat, my back to him. How long was he there? Was he watching me? Was he waiting for a machine? I don’t have these answers. I’m not sure I want to know them either.
All in all, I was at the gym today for about an hour, which is typical for me. I’m often alone, especially now that I go during the day when it’s quieter and more people are at work, and don’t fight for space and equipment with the 4 p.m. crowd I bid my time with for over a year. I made some gym friends while going at that time and we chat when we see each other. That’s how I met my partner, too. After seeing each other working out regularly for over a year, he came up to me one day and said hi and was very courteous and sweet. He didn’t ask me on a date–that happened another day after longer conversation. We still go to the gym together, mostly on the weekend. I like knowing he’s there, not that I need him to protect me–he’s just one less man I have to worry about; the only man whose gaze I’m okay with, have consented to. Herein lies the catch: In an age where consent is louder than ever, where does the responsibility lie in social situations where consent can’t always be given?
When women sign up at a gym, they don’t have a separate waiver that includes giving consent to have men stare at them, make misogynistic comments about their workouts or outfits, or make any sort of pass. We aren’t dressing a certain way for men. I wear my sports bras and leggings because they’re functional and comfortable. I can’t stand working out in shirts because it’s sensory overload in my neurodivergent brain. So I wear what works for me. And God forbid I don a tight outfit that makes me feel good once a month. Have you men not heard us shouting for the last several decades that it doesn’t matter what she was wearing, she wasn’t asking for it? The clothing a woman chooses to put on her body or take off never equates to consent. Yes and No are words. Jeans and T-shirts are items of clothing. Do you see how they’re not the same?
Men must start considering far more often the intention and implications of their gaze. The receiver cannot read your mind; they can only interpret and relate to previous, personal and learned experience. Men have to understand how much unwanted attention women get on a daily basis and that, regardless of your intentions, your stares can have a lasting impact. The gym is meant to be a safe space, a place of camaraderie not condescension and mansplaining weightlifting to someone who, despite her gender, has been doing this at least twice as long as you have.
I’ve been spoken down to and belittled by boys who have not yet developed into men because I’m a woman. I’ve been stared at for longer than I was comfortable with by many men in a single hour. And at times have recognized the all-knowing gut feeling, the burning hot of their unwelcomed gaze on my skin without having to even look. The times when I do look up to verify, they are, of course, dead set on my figure.
I’ve witnessed men act inappropriately towards younger women who gave them the cold shoulder, a brush off, only to have that man continue to approach the girl until she finally relents and talks to him or engages in some more ‘meaningful’ way. Take a hint. This isn’t the place. Yet men continue to push women to the point of such discomfort that they feel they have to say something, are required to engage in an interaction that feels unsafe to them.
I notice it’s always these days when I feel good, great even, confident and strong that I get the most unwanted attention from men. Maybe they pick up on my glow. As a younger woman, I would have wanted to immediately cover up or lean into the attention I was getting. I realize that’s not a strong point for my case, but when you have low self-esteem and seek external validation, you take what you can get and that includes leers from sweaty men at the gym you weren’t previously paying attention to. Now, as a woman in her mid-30s who has her off days but far more confidence than her younger self did, I refuse to bow down to anyone, especially a man who turns tomato red squatting the same weight as little old me in my leggings and sports bra.
I’ve heard anecdotes from friends about how men are afraid to talk to women in the gym, of approaching women because of how it will be perceived. They’ll get in trouble, scorned, shamed for starting a conversation. There’s a big difference, though, in being open to a friendly chat with a fellow fitness geek and leering at a woman for weeks, making her feel uncomfortable, and approaching her one day to say something inappropriate or ask her out on a date. Even without the optical foreplay, it’s considered bold these days to straight up ask a woman on a date. It would be bold of anyone to do that in any setting. I’ve had it happen to me in the shampoo aisle at Wal-Mart, on the street (the man being both in and out of a car while doing so, on different occasions), in class at college, and while serving at a pub.
Golden-age rom-coms make these meet-cutes appear flirty and sweet and innocent. Serendipitous. And they can be. But not all of them are. I’m tired of playing nice. It’s one thing to be an outright asshole, but it’s exhausting trying to protect a man’s feelings, his ego, when he was the one who approached you, unsolicited, in the first place and now you have to decline his offer, whatever it may be, with ease. Let him down gently. Forget how uncomfortable you are, it’s not about you, the woman who was approached. It’s always been about him. It’s all about him.