Page 2 of Set on You

“Look, I need to get to work in half an hour. Can’t you just use the other rack? It’s free.” As he ruthlessly balances the rack with another plate, he barely spares me a passing glance, as if I’m nothing more than a pesky housefly.

I pride myself on being an accommodating person. I wave other cars ahead of me at four-way stops, even if I have the right-of-way. I always insist others exit elevators in front of me, as my parents taught me. If he had just been polite, half-decent, even theslightest bit apologetic, I probably would have let him have it. But he isn’t any of the above, and I’m shook.

“No,” I say, out of principle.

His jaw tightens as he rests his forearms on the bar. The way he leans into it, stance wide and hulking, is purely a territorial move. He gives me one last, indignant shrug. “Well, I’m not moving.”

We’re locked in a stare-off with nothing but the faint sound of Katy Perry singing about being “a plastic bag drifting through the wind” over the gym sound system and a man grunting on the leg press a couple feet away to quell the silence. My eyes are dry and itchy from my refusal to blink, and the intensity of his stare offers no sign of fatigue.

When Katy Perry fades out, replaced by an Excalibur Fitness promotional ad, I let out a half sigh, half growl. This guy isn’t worth my energy. I retrieve my headphones from the floor and stomp to the less desirable rack, but not before shooting him one last evil eye.

11:05 A.M.—INSTAGRAM POST: “ASSHOLES WHO THINK THEY OWN THE GYM” BYCURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL:

Real talk: This morning, an arrogant dickhead with nicer hair than me callously stole my squat rack. Who does this? And if you’re guilty of this crime, WHO HURT Y’ALL?

I don’t know him personally (and I don’t want to), but he struck me as the kind of person who loathes puppies and joy in general. You know the type. Anyway, I ended up channeling all my angerinto my workout while blasting my current jam, “Fitness” by Lizzo (trust, this song is fire).

Final thoughts: Most people at the gym aren’t assholes. I promise. 99% are super helpful and respectful, even the steroid frat boys! And if you do encounter that unfortunate 1%, just steer clear. Never give them power over you or your fitness journey.

Thanks for listening to my TED Talk,

Crystal

Comment byxokyla33: YAS girl! You’re sooo right. You do you!!

Comment by_jillianmcleod_: I just don’t feel comfortable working out at the gym for this reason. Would rather work out at home.

Comment byAPB_rockss: U promote embracing your curves/size but all u do is work out and live at the gym? Hypocrite much??

Reply byCurvyFitnessCrystal: @APB_rockssActually I spend one hour in the gym working out each day. Devoting time every day for yourself, whether it’s at the gym, taking a walk, or in a bubble bath is hugely beneficial for all aspects ofyour life, including mental health. Also, you can both love your body and go to the gym. They aren’t mutually exclusive.

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AFTER YESTERDAY’S INCOHERENTInstagram rant, I took a much-needed soul-searching bubble bath. My response to the person who called me a hypocrite unintentionally sparked a fierce debate of epic proportions between my loyal followers and my haters. I try not to pay the trolls an iota of attention, but after Squat Rack Thief and two glasses of merlot, I was feeling a tinge combative. And it’s been building for months.

For seven years, I’ve striven to shatter harmful, fatphobic stereotypes in the fitness industry. I’ve built an Instagram following of two hundred thousand based on my message of self-love, regardless of size. The drama over me being “too big” to be a personal trainer yet “not big enough” to represent the curvy community is typical in the abyss of the comments section. There’s no in-between.

The crass body-shaming and occasional racist slurs have become more commonplace with the growth of my following. For the sake of maintaining a positive message, I’ve ignored the hateful comments. The fact is, I love my curves. Most of the time. I’m only human. Occasionally, the trolls manage to penetrate my armor. When this happens, I allow myself a short grace period to wallow. And then I treat them to a proverbial middle finger in the form of a thirst trap (a full-length body shot, for good measure).

But last night, sometime before my rainbow glitter bath bomb dissolved entirely, it occurred to me that my followers are probably equally, if not more, hurt by the comments. If I want to stay authenticand true to my body-positive platform, maybe it’s time to start speaking out.

Today’s workout is the perfect time to ruminate over my strategy.

But to my displeasure, Squat Rack Thief is back again, for the second day in a row. He’s stretching in the Gym Bro Zone. Must he have such magnificent quads?

He narrows his gaze in my direction as I shimmy through the turnstiles. Instantly, his expression goes from neutral to a deep scowl, as if my mere presence has derailed his entire day.

I eye him sideways before shifting my faux attention to the generic motivational quotes plastered on the wall in an aggressively bold font:If it doesn’t challenge you, it won’t change you.

Evading him for the duration of my workout is harder than I expected. Wherever I go, he’s looming in my peripherals, taking up precious space with his gloriously muscled body.

When I woke up this morning, it crossed my mind that he could be an Excalibur Fitness newbie who hasn’t grasped the concept of gym etiquette. I fully intended to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was simply having a bad day. Maybe he spent the entire night staring into the vast distance, roiling with regret. Lord knows I’ve had my fair share of rage-workouts.

All of these possibilities lose legitimacy when he conspires to out-pedal me on the neighboring assault bike. When I catch him eyeing my screen, I channel my inner Charlie’s Angel and full-throttle it.

At the twenty-calorie mark, we both stop, panting, hunched over the handles. My “no-makeup” makeup has probably melted entirely, and I’m seeing spots. But my exertion was worth it—I beat him by a whole 0.02 miles. He practically seethes when he readsmy screen. Evidently unable to cope with my victory, he pouts, promptly hightailing it to the machines.

Not half an hour later, it’s officially game over when I witness him saunter away from the leg press without bothering to wipe down the seat. The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who don’t clean the machines after use.

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