Fat poem
It’s one thing to be fat
it’s another thing to be
fat in a gym
full of muscles and sweat
and you are already tired
just from the walking tour
The first day, I wear the sweats
I’ve been wearing as pajamas
amongst the crowds of yoga pants and lycra
with designer names
my thick trunks planted in
the grimy gym shoes I’ve had
since the last time I worked out
in college
I blend in like a Gothic chick at a reggae club
the only sore thumb with a big ass
In the stretching room
everyone is watching themselves.
I try to make stretching look casual
like voluptuous looks good
when bent and spread
hoping to god I don’t fart audibly
Sufficiently humiliated by the sight of
my limbs attempting nimble
I grab a mat and do 15 sit-ups with my eyes closed
my face already purple
barely surviving suffocation
between my breasts and my double chin
My stomach is like cafeteria jello
muscles like fruit cocktail buried
somewhere beneath the wobbling mass
Mr. Squat Thrust eyes me nervously
wondering who he should call when I
eventually pass out.
I wipe away the glistening imprint of my back
and walk the lines of flashing displays
I’ve always liked the elliptical machine
because it makes elephants seem like gazelles
and they are in far back corner
So, I grab my earphones and tuck in my shame
I get one foot on the peddles
muttering a prayer for the grace not to fall.
The display blinking as I search for the setting
that most closely resembles standing still
then look around before entering my weight
deciding whether to enter the lie on my driver’s license
or add 10 pounds so the machine will lower it’s expectations
The rhythm starts to feel more like breath than work
then work starts to feel more panic
my thighs anxiously clapping
sweatpants riding up the dampening crack
I am having a heart attack
I hope I am having a heart attack
I hope this isn’t what effort feels like
I hate this machine
the mocking countdown
fuck you peddles
fuck you parabolas
fuck your low impact circles
I need something different
something more like sitting
Riding a bike isn’t work, it’s travel
but pretty soon the bike is rocking back and forth
and I’m wondering why they haven’t bolted the fucking thing down.
The marathon running lawyers watching CNN
behind me praying it doesn't tip over
wondering if they should stretch
before hauling my ass up to a standing position
I work the circuit of the room like this
for an hour, maybe 20 minutes
acutely aware of every awkward jiggle
amidst the toned and tanned
I want to introduce myself as Bertha or Marge
I want to become a mascot
They are glad that I am here
They want me to be one of them
They pat me on the back with their eyes
Everyone sweats here
These are not assholes
They are just in better shape
By the end, the locker room looks less like Junior High
or I am just too tired to be embarrassed
I get home, tell myself that I love me just the way I am
but it would be so much easier if my pants fit
It’s good to have goals and
I’ve paid for a year in advance.