Monday 1/11/2010
Work Out Interrupted
For every man and woman in every city around the world there are certain places that are sacred. For the religious there are churches. For the alcoholics there are bars. And for the gays there are gyms. A slight aberration, I traveled across town so that I could go to a gym where I could work out without being cruised. That same gym is where I had once spent countless hours sweating with my ex, Komet.
Having once used him as a trainer, partially to get a better body and mostly to flirt, I hadn’t been able to go to our gym for two months after our breakup. I could barely climb onto the elliptical without tearing up. Slowly I began to work out more as I moved on and my memories eased out of the walls and into another life.
Two months later….
I finally could wish for Komet to be happy because I was no longer interested in his happiness. The only happiness I was interested in now was my own. I finally cared more about where I was going and not where he was going without me. It may have not been face-to-face, but I could finally say goodbye.
And for the first time, in a long time, I was free.
Or so I almost firmly believed for the next four days. And then it happened. Only 10 minutes after my cardio and 40 minutes before my work out was supposed to end there he was, my ex, all six foot, brown hair and blue eyes of him.
Once my heart started beating again the first thing I couldn’t decide was whether or not to hate or love peripheral vision. Hate because it let me see my ex. Love because it let me see him without making direct eye contact. It was a strong draw.
Somehow I managed to keep my legs from collapsing under me just long enough for Komet to walk away. And moments later, downstairs in the locker room, covered in sweat, I threw my clothes on and fled the gym. As long as I was downtown I didn’t feel safe. Sure, I realized that fleeing the gym mid work out from a man who left me six months ago was a tad dramatic, but the thought of being in the same building as him was too much to bear.
As I rushed out onto the sidewalk and into the blizzard all the old memories came flooding back. That had been our gym, the place where we spent much of the first two months of our relationship. He was wearing the same shorts he always did and the same red t-shirt that had been over washed to the point of delicate softness. I could feel it on my skin as I made my way up the street.
My mind had calmed just enough while the 151 sucked up my transit card to scream, “What the fuck are you doing? Did you really just let a former lover and a current asshole take control of you?”
As the bus rattled its way uptown I sat staring out the window. I was supposed to be over Komet. I knew that he was bad for me. He lacked ambition and even admitted that he would never be fully happy with who he was as a man. Hell! He couldn’t even make it somewhere on time when he had all afternoon to get there. Now, practically strangers, the man who had long ago been deleted from my Blackberry still made me weak in the knees. While I used to fantasize about him naked and all the positions we could fuck in, now all of my fantasies just involved me kicking his ass. Why couldn’t I shake his hold on me?
Maybe I could blame it on the adrenaline? Better known as fight or flight, we’re all programmed to either fight or flee in extremely stressful situations. But for some reason I didn’t stay to fight as usual. I flew. No. I fled.
The man who once allowed me to find comfort in his arms now had me running in the opposite direction. And that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t running from Komet, I was running from myself.
I was the one who wasn’t dating anyone new. I was the one who had lost all the friends I had once counted as my closest circle. I was the one left with no real attachments in the city or in my life.
I had always imagined our first meeting to have me strong, confident and surrounded by friends looking fantastic. He was supposed to see what a mistake it was to leave me and how wonderful my life was despite not having him in it. Childish? Maybe. Vindictive? Perhaps. But I realized the armor I felt I needed to survive didn’t exist. It seemed that my subconscious knew better than I did in that moment at the gym and chose to live today so that I could fight tomorrow.
Now the only thing to do was trust that I would do just that, fight: that I would find my own armor even if I was alone and covered in sweat.
Having once used him as a trainer, partially to get a better body and mostly to flirt, I hadn’t been able to go to our gym for two months after our breakup. I could barely climb onto the elliptical without tearing up. Slowly I began to work out more as I moved on and my memories eased out of the walls and into another life.
Two months later….
I finally could wish for Komet to be happy because I was no longer interested in his happiness. The only happiness I was interested in now was my own. I finally cared more about where I was going and not where he was going without me. It may have not been face-to-face, but I could finally say goodbye.
And for the first time, in a long time, I was free.
Or so I almost firmly believed for the next four days. And then it happened. Only 10 minutes after my cardio and 40 minutes before my work out was supposed to end there he was, my ex, all six foot, brown hair and blue eyes of him.
Once my heart started beating again the first thing I couldn’t decide was whether or not to hate or love peripheral vision. Hate because it let me see my ex. Love because it let me see him without making direct eye contact. It was a strong draw.
Somehow I managed to keep my legs from collapsing under me just long enough for Komet to walk away. And moments later, downstairs in the locker room, covered in sweat, I threw my clothes on and fled the gym. As long as I was downtown I didn’t feel safe. Sure, I realized that fleeing the gym mid work out from a man who left me six months ago was a tad dramatic, but the thought of being in the same building as him was too much to bear.
As I rushed out onto the sidewalk and into the blizzard all the old memories came flooding back. That had been our gym, the place where we spent much of the first two months of our relationship. He was wearing the same shorts he always did and the same red t-shirt that had been over washed to the point of delicate softness. I could feel it on my skin as I made my way up the street.
My mind had calmed just enough while the 151 sucked up my transit card to scream, “What the fuck are you doing? Did you really just let a former lover and a current asshole take control of you?”
As the bus rattled its way uptown I sat staring out the window. I was supposed to be over Komet. I knew that he was bad for me. He lacked ambition and even admitted that he would never be fully happy with who he was as a man. Hell! He couldn’t even make it somewhere on time when he had all afternoon to get there. Now, practically strangers, the man who had long ago been deleted from my Blackberry still made me weak in the knees. While I used to fantasize about him naked and all the positions we could fuck in, now all of my fantasies just involved me kicking his ass. Why couldn’t I shake his hold on me?
Maybe I could blame it on the adrenaline? Better known as fight or flight, we’re all programmed to either fight or flee in extremely stressful situations. But for some reason I didn’t stay to fight as usual. I flew. No. I fled.
The man who once allowed me to find comfort in his arms now had me running in the opposite direction. And that’s when it hit me. I wasn’t running from Komet, I was running from myself.
I was the one who wasn’t dating anyone new. I was the one who had lost all the friends I had once counted as my closest circle. I was the one left with no real attachments in the city or in my life.
I had always imagined our first meeting to have me strong, confident and surrounded by friends looking fantastic. He was supposed to see what a mistake it was to leave me and how wonderful my life was despite not having him in it. Childish? Maybe. Vindictive? Perhaps. But I realized the armor I felt I needed to survive didn’t exist. It seemed that my subconscious knew better than I did in that moment at the gym and chose to live today so that I could fight tomorrow.
Now the only thing to do was trust that I would do just that, fight: that I would find my own armor even if I was alone and covered in sweat.
Monday 1/11/2010
He Called Me "31"
The truth is.... The truth is.... If only I knew. The truth is, the only thing I know is that my truth, your truth, all our truths, lie somewhere in the ellipse. Uncertain of what's to come and not always understanding what has been I often find myself asking, "why?"
Why did I eat that whole cheesecake? Why did I have that last martini? Why did I have to fall in love with the man my best friend loves? Why did I have to believe that he loved me?
Earlier this week I was faced with the notion that dreams are something we hold onto when reality gives us nothing. I always thought that was hope. In the world of BlackBerries and iPhones have we become so adept at multitasking that we have consolidated hopes and dreams into one inseparable app?
While I like my technology there are certain things that I choose to keep separate and my hopes and dreams are two of those things. But I refuse to relinquish my dreams to status desperation. My dreams are my future, and that, I know, is just one of my truths.
And as for the man who called me "31." The one whose love was forbidden. As I looked at a picture of us sitting on the curb during Pride I realized that it wasn't him that I missed. It was the feeling of being in love that I missed. But that turned out to be a false love, a dying love. Maybe that means I miss thinking I'm in love. And maybe that's the problem.
Why did I eat that whole cheesecake? Why did I have that last martini? Why did I have to fall in love with the man my best friend loves? Why did I have to believe that he loved me?
Earlier this week I was faced with the notion that dreams are something we hold onto when reality gives us nothing. I always thought that was hope. In the world of BlackBerries and iPhones have we become so adept at multitasking that we have consolidated hopes and dreams into one inseparable app?
While I like my technology there are certain things that I choose to keep separate and my hopes and dreams are two of those things. But I refuse to relinquish my dreams to status desperation. My dreams are my future, and that, I know, is just one of my truths.
And as for the man who called me "31." The one whose love was forbidden. As I looked at a picture of us sitting on the curb during Pride I realized that it wasn't him that I missed. It was the feeling of being in love that I missed. But that turned out to be a false love, a dying love. Maybe that means I miss thinking I'm in love. And maybe that's the problem.
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