One Of the Boys

I’ve fallen into a pattern of lifting with a couple of the guys after class. 

I must have forgotten how much I like hanging out with boys.  Especially boys who are pumped full of testosterone.  There’s lots of dirty jokes, and grunting, and one-upping each other.  I take a fair amount of ribbing for lifting so little compared to them.  But when we stretch, I dish it all back.

I’d forgotten how close the bonds are between people who work out together.  We lead such drastically different professional and personal lives.  (I don’t work in high-end custom fashion nor do I frequent clubs where one orders bottle service.  Until recently, I didn’t hang out with models, either.)  Even though they wear Prada and I wear Gap, the gym is a level playing field.  Our conversations are so fascinating and so disjointed, because we have to stop when we’re out of breath.  Today, we covered dating and religion, 1980s MTV, Hugh Hefner, Jedi philosophy, and what happens to a women’s breasts if she works her pecs too much.

But mostly, I love that we’ve broken through the privacy bubble New Yorkers impose upon/grant to each other.  It started with just spotting each other.  Then palpating the muscles during a set, so we knew how to work it best.  Then stretching each other.  Suddenly, sweaty congratulatory hugs are de rigeur and we’re slow dancing (or break dancing) during our active rests.  We do a lot of boxing too, and if someone doesn’t keep his hands up, he gets hit.  And they include me, which explains the bruise on my shoulder.

Boys are fun.