March 14, 2013


"You look gay." My husband says this not as a pejorative, but merely as a description. This is, in fact, what I am going for, I tell him. For 9:30 p.m. on a weeknight at the gym, it is basically me and a dozen ringless dudes who rest for too long between reps and blankly scan the gym horizon for something of interest. You do not want to meet that gaze I tell him. So I have cultivated an exercise look that will ward off even that preliminary head-to-toe up-down glance. It is like so: with my now short hair, if I wash it and do not put a thing in it to sit it down, it looks like a close descendent of Tig Notaro's and that of a mon chi chi. I have purchased sweatpants, my first ever, and though they are tighter on my butt than I wished they have pockets which I have laden with stuff like my keys and a wad of earbuds. Then there is the hoodie. I do not own my own, so I have to swipe Matt's which are sized Men's Large, which really puts a sort of classic Kevin Federline spin on it. There is also the matter of the shoes: SAS nurse shoes in dark brown with dark brown laces. I gave away my gym shoes when I was preggo and my feet expanded like those magic animal bath sponges and I assumed they would stay that way and that turned out to not be true.
I feel like the shoes are the icing, they are really what sell it for me.

Posted by jessica hopper at March 14, 2013 11:24 PM | TrackBack