Men at the Gym Have Thoughts on My Reading Material

by AmandaMeyncke

The Book: The Sandman: Season of Mists, by Neil Gaiman.

The Man: Early 30s, Brown hair, balding, 5K shirt, no wedding ring.

He’s running really fast next to me, I have my headphones in and my book balanced precariously on the little magazine shelf of the treadmill. I hear something and take my headphones out: “Sorry?” He asks again, “Is that The Sandman?” I’m surprised. “Yes, it is.” “I’m impressed you can read that, the words are so small.” I laugh and we proceed to have one of those nice conversations where everyone says the right thing, there’s smiling and a bit of joking, and I don’t say anything too weird — in fact I appear totally normal — and yet he doesn’t ask me out. He smiles and says he’ll see me around. By the time I realize I should have said something, he’s already on his way out of the gym. I have not seen him since.

The Book: Learn Descriptive Cataloging, by Mary Mortimer.

The Man: Early 20s, nice smile, gray sweatpants, red shirt.

I’m riding the recumbent bicycle, trying to pay attention to how exactly the Library of Congress creates copy catalogs. I’m also entirely alone in the bike area, because it’s only the early afternoon. This guy saunters over, looks me up and down and settles into the bike next to me. I flip a page, there’s silence for a few moments, and then — “How many calories do these burn?” I look up. “Oh, I’m not really sure, I think it says on there.” I look down. Flip a page. “What’re you reading?” “Uh, it’s a book about library cataloging, for grad school.” I show him the cover and go back to my reading. “Why’re you reading that? That sounds boring.” “Yeah, it’s pretty boring, it’s for school.” “Hm. I wouldn’t read that for school.” I’m unsure what to say so I nod and keep reading. He gets up and leaves after a minute.

The Book: The Films of Krzysztof Kieslowski: The Liminal Image, by Joseph G. Kickasola.

The Man: Mid 50s, still in good shape, wearing very short shorts.

I’m in the nearly deserted elliptical machine area, and he wanders toward me, pausing every few feet to investigate what’s on each television set before arriving at the machine next to me. A daytime soap is playing on the machine in front of us; apparently this is what he wants to watch. He pipes up immediately: “You like to read?” I pretend to be engrossed to the point of distraction and look up only to half-smile and nod. He tries again, “What is that?” I yawn, and show him the cover. “It’s critical film theory.” He doesn’t seem to register this and grins at me creepily. I note the time and move to the weight machines.

The Book: Philosophy in the Present, by Alain Badiou and Slavoj Zizek.

The Man: Late 20s, well-built, blonde hair, looks a lot like Brad Pitt, not gay I don’t think.

I’m running (who am I kidding, walking) on the treadmill when Brad Pitt steps onto the one next to me. I do the customary sideways glance to check out the newcomer and when I see the glorious display of manliness next to me I decide to step up the pace, maybe to appear fitter and livelier so he can more easily imagine us running marathons together as our blonde children and Boston Terrier look on lovingly. I notice him looking over at my open book so I decide to casually get rid of it, but of course drop it between our machines instead. He stops his treadmill as I’m mashing my fingers on the stop button, pops down, grabs it, and glances at the cover before meeting my eyes and giving me a look like he thinks I’ve been reading erotica in public. I stammer thanks, whisk the book into my bag, and try to keep up with his pace but am out of shape (which is why I was walking in the first place), and eventually, shamefully leave the gym.

Amanda Meyncke lives in Los Angeles and writes about movies for a living.