Jon22: The Website of Jonathan Dobres

I was in the gym yesterday, going through my usual Friday routine. The semester will start next week, at which point about six thousand gym regulars will crowd the gym on a daily basis (along with four thousand freshman who will crowd the gym for the first week of September, then give up and use the time to take valuable naps). For the moment, though, I was enjoying the freedom of an almost empty gym. I was midway through my sets on the lat pulldown machine when two young women started using the machines to my left.

Have I ever mentioned that I eavesdrop? I don’t do it intentionally. Think of it like this. Conversations are like water, and my idling brain is a dry sponge. I soak up other peoples’ conversations without even meaning to, especially when bored. I’ve found that my workouts have the added bonus of clearing out my brain, which only magnifies my ability to listen.

One of the girls to my left is slim and blond. Her friend is equally blond but not as slim. This friend asks, “So are you, like, going to do it?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s just flirting with some random freshmen.”

“But do you think your boyfriend is going to be okay with that?”

“Yeah, well. I think so. Anyway I’ll be drunk, which will make it easier. And I really want that free t-shirt.”

And I really want that free t-shirt, my brain repeated.

Despite a very successful eight months in the gym, it’s still sometimes hard to overcome the feeling that I—with my glasses, freakishly skinny build, and history of adaptive PE classes—don’t belong here. It’s the irrational notion that everyone else knows exactly what they are doing and it would be best to keep my incompetent self from screwing up their workouts, which have of course been honed to perfection. It’s not a feeling that grips me terribly often these days, but still, I try to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

So you can imagine just how loudly “And I really want that free t-shirt” had to be echoing in my brain to compel me to turn to this woman, a complete stranger, and say, “What?”

She and her friend looked at me. “Sorry,” I said, “but you’re having one of the weirdest conversations I’ve ever heard. What’s the deal?” I tried to make it sound like I had misheard her, as if upon clarification this would turn into a hilarious misunderstanding. It couldn’t possibly mean what I think it means.

“Uh, well, it’s like-” She seemed startled, as if it had never occurred to her that a person sitting barely four feet from her mouth might actually hear her. Perhaps she had confused the overhead press machine for her living room.

“Well, there’s this fraternity that wants me to, like, flirt with freshman guys who might join the fraternity.”

I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head comically, hoping it would soften what I was about to say. “And you’re doing this for a t-shirt?”

“Well, and free alcohol, too.”

My indignation had never been so righteous.¹ “Listen, in case you didn’t know, t-shirts are not expensive. Dignity, however, is priceless.”

I actually said this. I swear. T-shirt girl’s friend laughed, while t-shirt girl herself just smirked and looked at me. Since I didn’t know this woman, had little respect for her, and honestly didn’t care whether she was listening to me, I followed it up with, “Have you ever heard of Gloria Steinem?”

She had not, but I decided to shut up and leave the conversation there. After all, there’s only so much social activism one can accomplish when surrounded by a wall of mirrors and several metric tons of iron.

Afterward, I did that thing we all do, where we replay the confrontation and imagine ourselves giving the sharpest of retorts and the greatest of monologues, just like on The West Wing. I think I did pretty well in this case, but if I had the chance to do it over, I’d probably say, “You know, flirting with freshmen for a t-shirt and some booze pretty much makes you a booth babe, and puts you one shirt shy of prostitute. Gloria Steinem would be spinning in her grave, were she not still alive. Then again, people like Camille Paglia would argue that your ability to lure and manipulate foolish, aroused men with nothing more than the possibility of your favor is the oldest and most affirming form of true power. Of course, since you’ve stated explicitly that you’re doing it for booze and clothing, instead of for yourself, we’re pretty much back to whore, aren’t we?”

But that would have been a little verbose.

1. Except maybe the one time. ∧