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I'm not much of a work-out partner. I like to get in, drown everything out with my head phones and thoughts, and get out. But I'm often attracted to some spectacle of the human condition. The gym is certainly one of the best places to people watch. There is the guy is the pool lane next to me, googles and all, who never puts his head under water. He just thrashes about like a netted dolphin. Or sometimes reminds me of Zach Braff in Garden State. There is a woman who comes every day, between the same hours, and though she goes to a locker and puts a lock on it, she brings her entire gym bag into the pool room with her. She has her swimsuit underneath her clothes, which she puts back over even after she's all wet. The older man comes to the big windows and looks in before he decides if its worth it or not.

There are some girls that are just far too cute to be working up a sweat. She has lots of pink and everything matches. Her hair doesn't move and the make-up prevents their face from glistening under the lights. I saw one in Christmas knee-high socks, biker shorts, a stripped tank, and a head band. The guy with the flames tattooed up his legs who looks at himself in the mirror frequently. "Beef" is what I want to nickname the curly-haired guy with the milk jug of water and loud voice.

I miss the girl at the counter checking people in, who knew me by name. But I was recognized the other day, by a former YMCA-er, who flattered me with the comment, "You're gettin' skinny."  Yes, I was the girl who ran and ran. I can't run and run anymore, I tell her. It's still a testament.

So someone is watching me, too.

picture via amodernhepburn